A  PILGRIMAGE  OF  PLEASURE 


This  Edit  on  of  "A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure: 
Essays  and  Studies,"  by  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne is  limited  to  500  copies,  printed  from  type. 


A  PILGRIMAGE 
OF  PLEASURE 

ESS  A  YS  AND  STUDIES 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 
WITH  A  BIBLIOGRAPHY 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

Wqt  #orf)am  $res£ 
BOSTON 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  rights  reserved 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 9 

II  Dead  Love 25 

III  Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai      .      .  35 

IV  Simeon    Solomon:    Notes    on    His    "Vision    of 

Love"   and   Other   Studies 49 

V  Mr.  George  Meredith's  "Modern  Love"      .      .  71 

VI  Charles   Dickens 79 

VII  An  Unknown  Poet 113 

VIII  John  Nichol's  "Hannibal" 143 

IX  A   Bibliography   of   the   Works   of  Algernon 

Charles  Swinburne,  bv  Edward  J.  O'Brien    .  153 


I. 

A  PILGRIMAGE  OF  PLEASURE 
1864 


A  PILGRIMAGE  OF 
PLEASURE 

Dramatis  Persona? 


Pleasure, 

Gluttony,  the  Vice, 

Youth, 

Vain  Delight, 

Life, 

Sapience 

Discretion, 

Death. 

Pleasure.     All  children  of  men,  give  good  heed 
unto  me, 
That  am  of  my  kind  very  virtue  bodily, 
Turn  ye  from  following  of  lies  and  Vain  Delight 
That  avaunteth  herself  there  she  hath  but  little 

right : 
Set  your  hearts  upon  goodly  things  that  I  shall 

you  show, 
For  the  end  of  her  ways  is  death  and  very  woe. 
Youth.     Away  from  me,  thou  Sapience,  thou 
noddy,  thou  green  fool! 
What  ween  ye  I  be  as  a  little  child  in  school? 
Ye  are  as  an  old  crone  that  moweth  by  a  fire, 
A  bob  with  a  chestnut  is  all  thine  heart's  desire. 
I  am  in  mine  habit  like  to  Bacchus  the  high  god, 
I  reck  not  a  rush  of  thy  rede  nor  of  thy  rod. 

Life.     Bethink    thee,    good    Youth,    and    take 
Sapience  to  thy  wife, 


10  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

For  but  a  little  while  hath  a  man  delight  of  Life. 
I  am  as  a  flame  that  lighteth  thee  one  hour ; 
She  hath  fruit  enow,  I  have  but  a  fleeting  flower. 
Discretion.     For  pity  of  Youth  I  may  weep 

withouten  measure, 
That  is  gone  a  great  way  as  pilgrim  after  Pleasure, 
For  her  (most  bold  queen)  shall  he  never  have  in 

sight, 
Who  is  bounden  all  about  with  bonds  of  Vain 

Delight. 
That  false  fiend  to  follow  in  field  he  is  full  fain, 
For  love  of  her  sweet  mouth  he  shall  bide  most 

bitter  pain. 
The  sweeter  she  singeth,  the  lesser  is  her  trust, 
She  will  bring  him  full  low  to  deadly  days  and  dust. 
Gluttony.     Ow,  I  am  so  full  of  flesh  my  skin 

goeth  nigh  to  crack ! 
I  would  not  for  a  pound  I  bore  my  body  on  my 

back. 
I  wis  ye  wot  well  what  manner  of  man  am  I ; 
One  of  ye  help  me  to  a  saddle  by  and  bye. 
I  am  waxen  over-big,  for  I  floter  on  my  feet; 
I  would  I  had  here  a  piece  of  beef,  a  worthy  meat. 
I  have  been  a  blubberling  this  two  and  forty  year, 
And  yet  for  all  this  I  live  and  make  good  cheer. 
Vain  Delight.     I  wot  ye  will  not  bite  upon  my 

snaffle,  good  Youth; 
Ye  go  full  smoothly  now,  ye  amble  well  forsooth. 
Youth.     My  sweet  life  and  lady,  my  love  and 

mine  heart's  lief, 
One  kiss  of  your  fair  sweet  mouth  it  slayeth  all 

men's  grief. 


A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  11 

One  sight  of  your  goodly  eyes  it  bringeth  all  men 
ease. 
Gluttony.     Ow,  I  would  I  had  a  manchet  or  a 

piece  of  cheese! 
Vain  Delight.     Lo,   where   lurketh   a  lurden  * 
that  is  kinsman  of  mine; 
Ho,  Gluttony,  I  wis  ye  are  drunken  without  wine. 
Youth.     We   have  gone  by  many  lands,   and 
many  grievous  ways, 
And  yet  have  we  not  found  this  Pleasure  all  these 

days. 
Sometimes  a  lightening  all  about  her  have  we  seen, 
A  glittering  of  her  garments  among  the  fieldes 

green ; 
Sometimes  the  waving  of  her  hair  that  is  right 

sweet, 
A  lifting  of  her  eyelids,  or  a  shining  of  her  feet, 
Or  either  in  sleeping  or  in  waking  have  we  heard 
A  rustling  of  raiment  or  a  whispering  of  a  word, 
Or  a  noise  of  pleasant  water  running  over  a  waste 

place, 
Yet  have  I  not  beheld  her,  nor  known  her  very 
face. 
Vain   Delight.     What,   thou   very  knave,   and 

how  reckonest  thou  of  me? 
Youth.     Nay,  though  thou  be  goodly,  I  trow 

thou  art  not  she. 
Vain  Delight.     I  would  that  thou  wert  hanged 
in  a  halter  by  the  neck, 
From  my  face  to  my  feet  there  is  neither  flaw  nor 
fleck, 

i  Lurden:   a  lout,  lubber. 


12  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

There  is  none  happy  man  but  he  that  sips  and  clips 
My  goodly  stately  body  and  the  love  upon  my  lips. 
Great  kings  have  worshipped  me,  and  served  me 

on  their  knees, 
Yet  for  thy  sake  I  wis,  have  I  set  light  by  these. 
Youth.     What    pratest    thou    of    Pleasure?     I 

wot  well  it  am  I. 
Gluttony.     Ow!  I  would  I  had  a  marchpane  or 

a  plover  in  a  pie! 
What  needeth  a  man  look  far  for  that  is  near  at 

hand? 
What  needeth  him  ear  the  sea,  or  fish  upon  dry 

land? 
For  whether  it  be  flesh,  or  whether  it  be  fish, 
Lo,  it  lurketh  full  lowly  in  a  little  dish. 

Sapience.     I  charge  thee,  O  thou  Youth,  thou 

repent  thee  on  this  tide, 
For  but  an  hour  or  twain,  shall  thy  life  and  thou 

abide ; 
Turn  thee,  I  say,  yea  turn  thee,  before  it  be  the 

night, 
Take  thine  heart  in  thine  hand,  and  slay  thy  Vain 

Delight, 
Before  thy  soul  and  body  in  sudden  and  sunder  be 

rent. 
Youth.     Nay,  though  I  be  well  weary,  yet  will  I 

not  repent, 
Nor  will  I  slay  my  love;  lo,  this  is  all  in  brief. 
Vain  Delight.     I  beseech  thee  now  begone,  thou 

ragged  hood,  thou  thief!  -\ 

Wherefore  snuffest  thou  so,  like  one  smelling  of 

mustard  ? 


A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  13 

Gluttony.     Ow,  methinks  I  could  eat  a  goodly 

quaking  custard. 
Youth.     Peace,  thou  paunch,  I  pray;  thou  say- 

est  ever  the  same. 
Vain  Delight.     Lo,  her  coats  be  all  bemired! 
this  is  a  goodly  dame, 
She  pranceth  with  her  chin  up,  as  one  that  is  full 
nice. 
Gluttony.     Ow,  I  would  I  had  a  pear  with  a 
pretty  point  of  spice, 
A  comfit  with  a  caudle  is  a  comfortable  meat; 
A  cony  is  the  best  beast  of  all  that  run  on  feet. 
I    love   well    buttered    ale,    I    would    I   had    one 

drop; 
I  pray  thee,  Mistress  Sapience,  hast  thou  never  a 
sugar  sop? 
Sapience.     Depart  from  me,  thou  sturdy  swine, 

thou  hast  no  part  in  me! 
Gluttony.     Ow,  I  wist  well  there  was  little  fair 
fellowship  in  thee. 
Good  Mistress  Discretion,  ye  be  both  lief  and  fair, 
Of  thy  dish,  I  pray  thee,  some  scrapings  thou  me 
spare. 
Discretion.     My  dish,  thou  foolish  beast,  for  thy 
mouth  it  is  not  meet; 
I  feed  on  gracious  thought,  and  on  prayer  that  is 

most  sweet, 
I  eat  of  good  desires,  I  drink  good  words  for  wine; 
Thou  art  fed  on  husks  of  death  among  the  snouts 

of  swine; 
My  drink  is  clear  contemplation,  I  feed  on  fasting 
hours, 


14  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

I  commune  with  the  most  high  stars,  and  all  the 

noble  flowers, 
With  all  the  days  and  nights,  and  with  love  that 
is  their  queen. 
Gluttony.     Ow,  of  this  communication  it  recks 
me  never  a  bean! 
Shall  one  drink  the  night  for  wine,  and  feed  upon 

the  dawn? 
Yet  had  I  rather  have  in  hand  a  cantle  of  brawn. 
Sapience.     O  Youth,  wilt  thou  not  turn  thee, 

and  follow  that  is  right? 
Youth.     Nay,  while  I  have  my  living,  I  forsake 
not  Vain  Delight. 
Till  when  my  hairs  are  grey,  I  put  her  away  from 
me. 
Vain  Delight.     Nay,  but  in  that  day  will  I  with- 
draw my  face  from  thee. 
Out,  out,  mother  mumble,  thou  art  both  rotten  and 
raw. 
Gluttony.     I  will  reach  thee,  if  I  may,  a  buffet 

with  my  paw. 
Vain  Delight.     What,  wilt  thou  take  my  king- 
dom? have  this  for  all  thy  pains. 
Gluttony.     Ow,  I  would  I  had  a  toast  to  butter 

with  thy  brains. 
Life.     Lo,  this  is  the  last  time  that  ever  we 
twain  shall  meet, 
I  am  lean  of  my  body  and  feeble  of  my  feet ; 
My  goodly  beauty  is  barren,  fruit  shall  it  never 

bear, 
But  thorns  and  bitter  ashes  that  are  cast  upon 
mine  hair; 


A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  15 

My  glory  is  all  gone,  and  my  good  time  overpast, 
Seeing  all  my  beauty  cometh  to  one  colour  at  the 

last, 
A  deadly  dying  colour  of  a  faded  face. 
I  say  to  thee,  repent  thee;  thou  hast  but  little 

space. 
Youth.     What  manner  of  man  art  thou?     It 

seems  thou  hast  seen  some  strife. 
Life.     I  am  thy  body's  shadow,  and  the  likeness 

of  thy  life, 
The  sorrowful  similitude  of  all  thy  sorrow  and  sin ; 
Wherefore,  I  pray  thee,  open  all  thine  heart  and 

let  me  in, 
Lest,  if  thou  shut  out  good  counsel,  thou  be  thy- 
self shut  out — 
Gluttony.     Ow,  though  I  be  lusty  I  have  made 

them  low  to  lout, 
My  lungs  be  broken  in  twain  with  running  over 

fast, 
With  beating  of  their  bodies  mine  own  sides  have 

I  brast; 
The  heaving  of  mine  heart  it  is  a  galling  grief. 
Ow,  what  makes  thee  so  lean  and  wan?  (to  Life) 

I  trow  thou  lackest  beef. 
Vain  Delight.     How,  what  is  this  knave,  trow? 
Youth.     He  saith  his  name  is  Life. 
Vain  Delight.     By  the  faith  of  my  fair  body  I 

will  give  him  grief  to  wife! 
In  his  lips  there  is  no  blood,  in  his  throat  there  is 

no  breath. 
Call  ye  this  Life,  by  my  hood?     I  think  it  be  liker 

Death. 


16  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Life.     It  is  thou,  thou  cursed  witch,  hast  bereft 

me  of  mine  ease, 
That  I  gasp  with  my  lips  and  halt  upon  my  knees. 
Death.     Thou  hast  lived  overlong  without  tak- 
ing thought  for  me; 
Lo,  here  is  now  an  end  of  thy  Vain  Delight  and 

thee. 
Thou  that  wert  gluttonous  shalt  eat  the  dust  for 

bread, 
Thou  that  wearest  gold  shalt  wear  grass  above 

thine  head; 
Thou  that  wert  full  big  shalt  be  shrunken  to  a 

span, 
Thou  shalt  be  a  loathly  worm  that  wert  a  lordly 

man. 
Thou  that  madest  thy  bed  of  silk  shalt  have  a  bed 

of  mould, 
Thou  whom  furs  have  covered  shalt  be  clad  upon 

with  cold, 
Thou  that  lovedst  honey,  with  gall  shalt  thou  be 

fed, 
Thou  that  wert  alive  shalt  presently  be  dead. 
Youth.     O  strong  Death!  be  merciful!     I  quake 

with  dread  of  thee. 
Death.     Nay,  thou  hast  dwelt  long  with  Life; 

now  shalt  thou  sleep  with  me. 
Gluttony.     Ow,  ow,  for  very  fear  my  flesh  doth 

melt  and  dwindle, 
My  sides  and  my  shanks  be  leaner  than  a  spindle; 
Now  foul  fall  his  fingers  that  wound  up  the  thread, 
Good  Master  Death,  do  me  no  hurt;  I  wis  I  am 

but  dead. 


A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  17 

Now  may  I  drink  my  sobs,  and  chew  upon  my 

sighs, 
And  feed  my  foolish  body  with  the  fallings  of  mine 

eyes. 
Vain  Delight.     Mine  eyes  are  turned  to  tears, 

my  fair  mouth  rilled  with  moan, 
My    cheeks    are    ashen    colour,    I    grovel    and    I 

groan, 
My  love  is  turned  to  loathing,  my  day  to  a  weary 

night, 
Now  I  wot  I  am  not  Pleasure,  I  am  but  Vain  De- 
light! 
Youth.     O   Death,    show   pity   upon   me,   and 

spare  me  for  a  space. 
Death.     Nay,  thou  hast  far  to  go;  rise  up,  un- 
cover thy  face. 
Youth.     O  Death,   abide  for  a  little,  but  till 

it  be  the  night. 
Death.     Nay,  thy  day  is  done;  look  up,  there 

is  no  light. 
Youth.     O  Death,  forbear  me  yet  till  an  hour 

be  over  and  done, 
Death.     Thine  hour  is  over  and  wasted ;  behold, 

there  is  no  more  sun! 
Youth.     Nay,  Death,  but  I  repent  me. 
Death.     Here  have  thou  this  and  hold. 
Youth.     O   Death,    thou   art   keen   and   bitter, 

thine  hands  are  wonder-cold! 
Death.     Fare  forth  now  without  word,  ye  have 

tarried  over  measure. 
Youth.     Alas,  that  ever  I  went  on  Pilgrimage 

of  Pleasure, 


18  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

And  wist  not  what  she  was ;  now  am  I  the  wearier 

wight. 
Lo,  this  is  the  end  of  all,  this  cometh  of  Vain  De- 
light! 
Death.     O  foolish  people!     O  ye  that  rejoice 

for  a  three  days'  breath, 
Lift  up  your  eyes  unto  me,  lest  ye  perish:  behold, 

I  am  Death! 
When  your  hearts  are  exalted  with  laughter,  and 

kindled  with  love  as  with  fire, 
Neither  look  ye  before  ye  nor  after,  but  feed  and 

are  filled  with  desire. 
Lo,   without  trumpets  I  come:  without  ushers  I 

follow  behind: 
And  the  voice  of  the  strong  men  is  dumb;  and  the 

eyes  of  the  wise  men  are  blind. 
Your  mouths  were  hot  with  meat,  your  lips  were 

sweet  with  wine, 
There  was  gold  upon  your  feet,  on  your  heads  was 

gold  most  fine: 
For  blasts  of  wind  and  rain  ye  shook  not  neither 

shrunk, 
Ye  were  clothed  with  man's  pain,  with  man's  blood 

ye  were  drunk; 
Little    heed    ye    had    of    tears    and    poor    men's 

sighs, 
In  your  glory  ye  were  glad,  and  ye  glittered  with 

your  eyes. 
Ye  said  each  man  in  his  heart,  "I  shall  live  and 

see  good  days." 
Lo,  as  mire  and  clay  thou  art,  even  as  mire  on 

weary  ways. 


A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  19 

Ye  said  each  man,  "I  am  fair,  lo,  my  life  in  me 

stands  fast." 
Turn  ye,  weep  and  rend  your  hair ;  what  abideth  at 

the  last? 
For  behold  ye  are  all  made  bare,  and  your  glory 

is  over  and  past. 
Ye    were    covered    with    fatness    and    sleep;    ye 

wallow'd  to  left  and  to  right, 
Now  may  ye  wallow  and  weep:  day  is  gone,  and 

behold  it  is  night! 
With  grief  were  all  ye  gotten,  to  bale  were  all  ye 

born, 
Ye  are  all  as  red  leaves  rotten,  or  as  the  beaten 

corn. 
What  will  one  of  you  say?  had  ye  eyes  and  would 

not  see? 
Had  ye  harps  and  would  not  play?     Yet  shall  ye 

play  for  me. 
Had  ye  ears  and  would  not  hear?     Had  ye  feet 

and  would  not  go? 
Had  ye  wits  and  would  not  fear?     Had  ye  seed 

and  would  not  sow? 
Had  ye  hands  and  would  not  wring?     Had  ye 

wheels  and  would  not  spin? 
Had  ye  lips  and  would  not  sing?  was  there  no  song 

found  therein? 
A  bitter,  a  bitter  thing  there  is  comen  upon  you 

for  sin. 
Alas!  your  kingdom  and  lands!  alas!  your  men 

and  their  might! 
Alas!  the  strength  of  your  hands  and  the  days  of 

your  Vain  Delight! 


20  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Alas !  the  words  that  were  spoken,  sweet  words  on 

a  pleasant  tongue! 
Alas!  your  harps  that  are  broken,  the  harps  that 

were  carven  and  strung ! 
Alas!  the  light  in  your  eyes,  the  gold  in  your  gol- 
den hair! 
Alas!  your  sayings  wise,  and  the  goodly  things  ye 

ware! 
Alas!  your  glory!  alas!  the  sound  of  your  names 

among  men! 
Behold,  it  is  come  to  pass,  ye  shall  sleep  and  arise 

not  again. 
Dust  shall  fall  on  your  face,  and  dust  shall  hang 

on  your  hair; 
Ye  shall  sleep  without  shifting  of  place,  and  shall 

be  no  more  as  ye  were; 
Ye  shall  never  open  your  mouth ;  ye  shall  never  lift 

up  your  head; 
Ye  shall  look  not  to  north  or  to  south ;  life  is  done, 

and  behold,  ye  are  dead! 
With  your  hand  ye  shall  not  threat;  with  your 

throat  ye  shall  not  sing. 
Yea,  ye  that  are  living  yet,  ye  shall  each  be  a 

grievous  thing. 
Ye  shall  each  fare  under  ground,  ye  shall  lose  both 

speech  and  breath; 
Without  sight  ye  shall  see,  without  sound  ye  shall 

hear,  and  shall  know  I  am  Death. 


A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  21 

EPILOGUE 

Spoken  by  Pleasure 

The  ending  of  Youth  and  of  Vain  Delight 

Full  plainly  here  ye  all  have  seen ; 
Wherefore  I  pray  you  day  and  night, 

While  winter  is  wan  and  summer  is  green, 
Ye  keep  the  end  hereof  in  sight, 

Lest  in  that  end  ye  gather  teen; 
And  all  this  goodly  Christmas  light, 

Ye  praise  and  magnify  our  Queen, 
Whiles  that  your  lips  have  breath; 
And  all  your  life-days  out  of  measure, 
Serve  her  with  heart's  and  body's  treasure, 
And  pray  god  give  her  praise  and  pleasure, 
Both  of  her  life  and  death. 


II 

DEAD  LOVE 

1862 


DEAD  LOVE 

ABOUT  the  time  of  the  great  troubles  in 
France,  that  fell  out  between  the  part- 
ies of  Armagnac  and  of  Burgundy,  there 
was  slain  in  a  fight  in  Paris  a  follower 
of  the  Duke  John,  who  was  a  good  knight  called 
Messire  Jacques  d'Aspremont.  This  Jacques 
was  a  very  fair  and  strong  man,  hardy  of  his  hands, 
and  before  he  was  slain  he  did  many  things  won- 
derful and  of  great  courage,  and  forty  of  the  folk 
of  the  other  party  he  slew,  and  many  of  these  were 
great  captains,  of  whom  the  chief  and  the  worth- 
iest was  Messire  Olivier  de  Bois-Perce;  but  at  last 
he  was  shot  in  the  neck  with  an  arrow,  so  that  be- 
tween the  nape  and  the  apple  the  flesh  was  cleanly 
cloven  in  twain.  And  when  he  was  dead  his  men 
drew  forth  his  body  of  the  fierce  battle,  and 
covered  it  with  a  fair  woven  cloak.  Then  the 
people  of  Armagnac,  taking  good  heart  because 
of  his  death,  fell  the  more  heavily  upon  his  fol- 
lowers, and  slew  very  many  of  them.  And  a  cer- 
tain soldier,  named  Amaury  de  Jacqueville,  whom 
they  called  Courtebarbe,  did  best  of  all  that  party ; 
for,  crying  out  with  a  great  noise,  "Sus,  sus!"  he 
brought  up  the  men  after  him,  and  threw  them  for- 
ward into  the  hot  part  of  the  fighting,  where  there 
was  a  sharp  clamour;  and  this  Amaury,  laughing 
and  crying  out  as  a  man  that  took  a  great  delight 
in  such  matters  of  war,  made  of  himself  more  noise 

25 


26  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

with  smiting  and  with  shouting  than  any  ten,  and 
they  of  Burgundy  were  astonished  and  beaten 
down.  And  when  he  was  weary,  and  his  men  had 
got  the  upper  hand  of  those  of  Burgundy,  he  left 
off  slaying,  and  beheld  where  Messire  d'Aspre- 
mont  was  covered  up  with  his  cloak;  and  he  lay 
just  across  the  door  of  Messire  Olivier,  whom  the 
said  Jacques  had  slain,  who  was  also  a  cousin  of 
Amaury's.     Then  said  Amaury: 

"Take  up  now  the  body  of  this  dead  fellow,  and 
carry  it  into  the  house;  for  my  cousin  Madame 
Yolande  shall  have  great  delight  to  behold  the  face 
of  the  fellow  dead  by  whom  her  husband  has  got 
his  end,  and  it  shall  make  the  tiding  sweeter  to 
her." 

So  they  took  up  this  dead  knight  Messire  Jac- 
ques, and  carried  him  into  a  fair  chamber  lighted 
with  broad  windows,  and  herein  sat  the  wife  of 
Olivier,  who  was  called  Yolande  de  Craon,  and  she 
was  akin  far  off  to  Pierre  de  Craon,  who  would 
have  slain  the  Constable.  And  Amaury  said  to 
her: 

"Fair  and  dear  cousin,  and  my  good  lady,  we 
give  you  for  your  husband  slain  the  body  of  him 
that  slew  my  cousin;  make  the  best  cheer  that  you 
may,  and  comfort  yourself  that  he  has  found  a 
good  death  and  a  good  friend  to  do  justice  on  his 
slayer;  for  this  man  was  a  good  knight,  and  I  that 
have  revenged  him  account  myself  none  of  the 
worst." 

And  with  this  Amaury  and  his  people  took  leave 
of  her.     Then  Yolande,  being  left  alone,  began  at 


Dead  Love  27 

first  to  weep  grievously,  and  so  much  that  she  was 
heavy  and  weary;  and  afterward  she  looked  upon 
the  face  of  Jacques  d'Aspremont,  and  held  one  of 
his  hands  with  hers,  and  said: 

"Ah,  false  thief  and  coward!  it  is  great  pity  thou 
wert  not  hung  on  a  gallows,  who  hast  slain  by 
treachery  the  most  noble  knight  of  the  world,  and 
to  me  the  most  loving  and  the  faithfulest  man 
alive,  and  that  never  did  any  discourtesy  to  any 
man,  and  was  the  most  single  and  pure  lover  that 
ever  a  married  lady  had  to  be  her  knight,  and  never 
said  any  word  to  me  but  sweet  words.  Ah,  false 
coward!  there  was  never  such  a  knight  of  thy  kin." 

Then,  considering  his  face  earnestly,  she  saw 
that  it  was  a  fair  face  enough,  and  by  seeming  the 
face  of  a  good  knight;  and  she  repented  of  her 
bitter  words,  saying  with  herself: 

"Certainly  this  one,  too,  was  a  good  man  and 
valiant,"  and  was  sorry  for  his  death. 

And  she  pulled  out  the  arrow-head  that  was 
broken,  and  closed  up  the  wound  of  his  neck  with 
ointments.  And  then  beholding  his  dead  open 
eyes,  she  fell  into  a  great  torrent  of  weeping,  so 
that  her  tears  fell  all  over  his  face  and  throat. 
And  all  the  time  of  this  bitter  sorrow  she  thought 
how  goodly  a  man  this  Jacques  must  have  been 
in  his  life,  who  being  dead  had  such  power  upon 
her  pity.  And  for  compassion  of  his  great  beauty 
she  wept  so  exceedingly  and  long  that  she  fell 
down  upon  his  body  in  a  swoon,  embracing  him, 
and  so  lay  the  space  of  two  hours  with  her  face 
against  his;  and  being  awaked  she  had  no  other 


28  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

desire  but  only  to  behold  him  again,  and  so  all 
that  day  neither  ate  nor  slept  at  all,  but  for  the 
most  part  lay  and  wept.  And  afterward,  out  of 
her  love,  she  caused  the  body  of  this  knight  to  be 
preserved  with  spice,  and  made  him  a  golden 
coffin  open  at  the  top,  and  clothed  him  with  the 
fairest  clothes  she  could  get,  and  had  this  coffin  al- 
ways by  her  bed  in  her  chamber.  And  when  this 
was  done  she  sat  down  over  against  him  and  held 
his  arms  about  her  neck,  weeping,  and  she  said: 

"Ah,  Jacques!  although  alive  I  was  not  worthy, 
so  that  I  never  saw  the  beauty  and  goodness  of 
your  living  body  with  my  sorrowful  eyes,  yet  now 
being  dead,  I  thank  God  that  I  have  this  grace  to 
behold  you.  Alas,  Jacques!  you  have  no  right 
now  to  discern  what  things  are  beautiful,  there- 
fore you  may  now  love  me  as  well  as  another,  for 
with  dead  men  there  is  no  difference  of  women. 
But,  truly,  although  I  were  the  fairest  of  all  Chris- 
tian women  that  now  is,  I  were  in  nowise  worthy 
to  love  you;  nevertheless,  have  compassion  upon 
me  that  for  your  sake  have  forgotten  the  most 
noble  husband  of  the  world." 

And  this  Yolande,  that  made  such  complaining 
of  love  to  a  dead  man,  was  one  of  the  fairest  ladies 
of  all  that  time,  and  of  great  reputation ;  and  there 
were  many  good  men  that  loved  her  greatly,  and 
would  fain  have  had  some  favour  at  her  hands ;  of 
whom  she  made  no  account,  saying  always,  that 
her  dead  lover  was  better  than  many  lovers  living. 
Then  certain  people  said  that  she  was  bewitched; 
and  one  of  these  was  Amaury.     And  they  would 


Dead  Love  29 

have  taken  the  body  to  burn  it,  that  the  charm 
might  be  brought  to  an  end;  for  they  said  that  a 
demon  had  entered  in  and  taken  it  in  possession; 
which  she  hearing  fell  into  extreme  rage,  and  said 
that  if  her  lover  were  alive,  there  was  not  so  good 
a  knight  among  them,  that  he  should  undertake  the 
charge  of  that  saying;  at  which  speech  of  hers 
there  was  great  laughter.  And  upon  a  night  there 
came  into  her  house  Amaury  and  certain  others, 
that  were  minded  to  see  this  matter  for  themselves. 
And  no  man  kept  the  doors ;  for  all  her  people  had 
gone  away,  saving  only  a  damsel  that  remained 
with  her;  and  the  doors  stood  open,  as  in  a  house 
where  there  is  no  man.  And  they  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  her  chamber,  and  heard  her  say  this 
that  ensues: — 

"O  most  fair  and  perfect  knight,  the  best  that 
ever  Was  in  any  time  of  battle,  or  in  any  company 
of  ladies,  and  the  most  courteous  man,  have  pity 
upon  me,  most  sorrowful  woman  and  handmaid. 
For  in  your  life  you  had  some  other  lady  to  love 
you,  and  were  to  her  a  most  true  and  good  lover; 
but  now  you  have  none  other  but  me  only,  and  I 
am  not  worthy  that  you  should  so  much  as  kiss  me 
on  my  sad  lips,  wherein  is  all  this  lamentation. 
And  though  your  own  lady  were  the  fairer  and 
the  more  worthy,  yet  consider,  for  God's  pity  and 
mine,  how  she  has  forgotten  the  love  of  your  body 
and  the  kindness  of  your  espousals,  and  lives  easily 
with  some  other  man,  and  is  wedded  to  him  with 
all  honour;  but  I  have  neither  ease  nor  honour, 
and  yet  I  am  your  true  maiden  and  servant." 


30  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

And  then  she  embraced  and  kissed  him  many- 
times.  And  Amaury  was  very  wroth,  but  he  re- 
frained himself:  and  his  friends  were  troubled  and 
full  of  wonder.  Then  they  beheld  how  she  held 
his  body  between  her  arms,  and  kissed  him  in  the 
neck  with  all  her  strength ;  and  after  a  certain  time 
it  seemed  to  them  that  the  body  of  Jacques  moved 
and  sat  up ;  and  she  was  no  whit  amazed,  but  arose 
up  with  him,  embracing  him.  And  Jacques  said 
to  her: 

"I  beseech  you,  now  that  you  would  make  a 
covenant  with  me,  to  love  me  always." 

And  she  bowed  her  head  suddenly,  and  said 
nothing. 

Then  said  Jacques: 

"Seeing  you  have  done  so  much  for  love  of  me, 
we  twain  shall  never  go  in  sunder:  and  for  this 
reason  has  God  given  back  to  me  the  life  of  my 
mortal  body." 

And  after  this  they  had  the  greatest  joy  to- 
gether, and  the  most  perfect  solace  that  may  be 
imagined:  and  she  sat  and  beheld  him,  and  many 
times  fell  into  a  little  quick  laughter  for  her  great 
pleasure  and  delight. 

Then  came  Amaury  suddenly  into  the  chamber, 
and  caught  his  sword  into  his  hand,  and  said  to  her: 

"Ah,  wicked  leman,  now  at  length  is  come  the 
end  of  thy  horrible  love  and  of  thy  life  at  once;" 
and  smote  her  through  the  two  sides  with  his  sword, 
so  that  she  fell  down,  and  with  a  great  sigh  full 
unwillingly  delivered  up  her  spirit,  which  was  no 
sooner  fled  out  of  her  perishing  body,  but  immedi- 


Dead  Love  31 

ately  the  soul  departed  also  out  of  the  body  of 
her  lover,  and  he  became  as  one  that  had  been  all 
those  days  dead.  And  the  next  day  the  people 
caused  their  two  bodies  to  be  burned  openly  in  the 
place  where  witches  were  used  to  be  burned:  and 
it  is  reported  by  some  that  an  evil  spirit  was  seen 
to  come  out  of  the  mouth  of  Jacques  d'Aspremont, 
with  a  most  pitiful  cry,  like  the  cry  of  a  hurt  beast. 
By  which  thing  all  men  knew  that  the  soul  of  this 
woman,  for  the  folly  of  her  sinful  and  most  strange 
affection,  was  thus  evidently  given  over  to  the  de- 
lusion of  the  evil  one  and  the  pains  of  condemna- 
tion. 


Ill 

CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE:  LES 
FLEURS  DU  MAL 

1862 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE:  LES 
FLEURS  DU  MAL 

IT  is  now  some  time  since  France  has  turned 
out  any  new  poet  of  very  high  note  or  im- 
portance; the  graceful,  slight,  somewhat 
thin  spun  classical  work  of  M.  Theodore  de 
Banville  hardly  carries  weight  enough  to  tell  across 
the  Channel ;  indeed,  the  best  of  this  writer's  books, 
in  spite  of  exquisite  humorous  character  and  a 
most  flexible  and  brilliant  style,  is  too  thoroughly 
Parisian  to  bear  transplanting  at  all.  French 
poetry  of  the  present  date,  taken  at  its  highest,  is 
not  less  effectually  hampered  by  tradition  and  the 
taste  of  the  greater  number  of  readers  than  our 
own  is.  A  French  poet  is  expected  to  believe  in 
philanthropy,  and  break  off  on  occasion  in  the 
middle  of  his  proper  work  to  lend  a  shove  forward 
to  some  theory  of  progress.  The  critical  students 
there,  as  well  as  here,  judging  by  the  books  they 
praise  and  the  advice  they  proffer,  seem  to  have 
pretty  well  forgotten  that  a  poet's  business  is  pre- 
sumably to  write  good  verses,  and  by  no  means  to 
redeem  the  age  and  remould  society.  No  other 
form  of  art  is  so  pestered  with  this  impotent  ap- 
petite for  meddling  in  quite  extraneous  matters; 
but  the  mass  of  readers  seem  actually  to  think  that 
a  poem  is  the  better  for  containing  a  moral  lesson 
or  assisting  in  a  tangible  and  material  good  work. 
The  courage  and  sense  of  a  man  who  at  such  a 

35 


36  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

time  ventures  to  profess  and  act  on  the  conviction 
that  the  art  of  poetry  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do 
with  didactic  matter  at  all,  are  proof  enough  of  the 
wise  and  serious  manner  in  which  he  is  likely  to 
handle  the  materials  of  his  art.  From  a  critic  who 
has  put  forward  the  just  and  sane  view  of  this 
matter  with  a  consistent  eloquence,  one  may  well 
expect  to  get  as  perfect  and  careful  poetry  as  he 
can  give. 

To  some  English  readers  the  name  of  M.  Baude- 
laire may  be  known  rather  through  his  admirable 
translations,  and  the  criticisms  on  American  and 
English  writers  appended  to  these,  and  framing 
them  in  fit  and  sufficient  commentaiy,  than  by  his 
volume  of  poems,  which,  perhaps,  has  hardly  yet 
had  time  to  make  its  way  among  us.  That  it  will 
in  the  long  run  fail  of  its  meed  of  admiration, 
whether  here  or  in  France,  we  do  not  believe.  Im- 
peded at  starting  by  a  foolish  and  shameless  prose- 
cution, the  first  edition  was,  it  appears,  withdrawn 
before  anything  like  a  fair  hearing  had  been  ob- 
tained for  it.  The  book  now  comes  before  us  with 
a  few  of  the  original  poems  cancelled,  but  with  im- 
portant additions.  Such  as  it  now  is,  to  sum  up 
the  merit  and  meaning  of  it  is  not  easy  to  do  in  a 
few  sentences.  Like  all  good  books,  and  all  work 
of  any  original  savour  and  strength,  it  will  be  long 
a  debated  point  of  argument,  vehemently  im- 
pugned and  eagerly  upheld. 

We  believe  that  M.  Baudelaire's  first  publica- 
tions were  his  essays  on  the  contemporary  art  of 
France,  written  now  many  years  since.     In  these 


Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  du  M al    37 

early  writings  there  is  already  such  admirable 
judgment,  vigour  of  thought  and  style,  and  ap- 
preciative devotion  to  the  subject,  that  the  worth 
of  his  own  future  work  in  art  might  have  been 
foretold  even  then.  He  has  more  delicate  power 
of  verse  than  almost  any  man  living,  after  Victor 
Hugo,  Browning,  and  (in  his  lyrics)  Tennyson. 
The  sound  of  his  metres  suggests  colour  and  per- 
fume. His  perfect  workmanship  makes  every 
subject  admirable  and  respectable.  Throughout 
the  chief  part  of  this  book,  he  has  chosen  to  dwell 
mainly  upon  sad  and  strange  things — the  weari- 
ness of  pain  and  the  bitterness  of  pleasure — the 
perverse  happiness  and  wayward  sorrows  of  ex- 
ceptional people.  It  has  the  languid  lurid  beauty 
of  close  and  threatening  weather — a  heavy  heated 
temperature,  with  dangerous  hothouse  scents  in  it; 
thick  shadow  of  cloud  about  it,  and  fire  of  molten 
light.  It  is  quite  clear  of  all  whining  and  windy 
lamentation ;  there  is  nothing  of  the  blubbering  and 
shrieking  style  long  since  exploded.  The  writer 
delights  in  problems,  and  has  a  natural  leaning  to 
obscure  and  sorrowful  things.  Failure  and  sor- 
row, next  to  physical  beauty  and  perfection  of 
sound  or  scent,  seem  to  have  an  infinite  attraction 
for  him.  In  some  points  he  resembles  Keats,  or 
still  more  his  chosen  favourite  among  modern 
poets,  Edgar  Poe;  at  times,  too,  his  manner  of 
thought  has  a  relish  of  Marlowe,  and  even  the 
sincerer  side  of  Byron.  From  Theophile  Gautier, 
to  whom  the  book  is  dedicated,  he  has  caught  the 
habit  of  a  faultless  and  studious  simplicity ;  but,  in- 


38  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

deed,  it  seems  merely  natural  to  him  always  to  use 
the  right  word  and  the  right  rhyme.  How  su- 
premely musical  and  flexible  a  perfect  artist  in 
writing  can  make  the  French  language,  any  chance 
page  of  the  book  is  enough  to  prove;  every  de- 
scription, the  slightest  and  shortest  even,  has  a 
special  mark  on  it  of  the  writer's  keen  and  peculiar 
power.  The  style  is  sensuous  and  weighty;  the 
sights  seen  are  steeped  most  often  in  sad  light  and 
sullen  colour.  As  instances  of  M.  Baudelaire's 
strength  and  beauty  of  manner,  one  might  take 
especially  the  poems  headed  Le  Masque,  Parfum 
Ecvotique,  La  Chevelure,  Les  Sept  Vieillards,  Les 
Petites  Vieilles,  Brumes  et  Pluies;  of  his  perfect 
mastery  in  description,  and  sharp  individual  draw- 
ing of  character  and  form,  the  following  stray 
verses  plucked  out  at  random  may  stand  for  a 
specimen : — 

"Sur  ta  chevelure  profonde 
Aux  acres  parfums, 
Mer  odorante  et  vagabonde 
Aux  flots  bleus  et  bruns, 

"Comrae  un  navire  qui  s'eveille 
Au  vent  du  matin, 
Mon  ante  reveuse  appareille 
Pour  un  ciel  lointain. 

"Tes  yeux  ou  rien  ne  se  revele 
De  doux  ni  d'amer 
Sont  deux  bijoux  froids  ou  se  mele 
L'or  avec  le  fer. 


Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai    39 

"Et  ton  corps  se  penche  et  s'allonge 
Comme  un  fin  vaisseau 
Qui  roule  bord  sur  bord  et  plonge 
Ses  vergues  dans  l'eau." 

The  whole  poem  is  worth  study  for  its  vigorous 
beauty  and  the  careful  facility  of  its  expression. 
Perhaps,  though,  the  sonnet  headed  Causerie  is  a 
still  completer  specimen  of  the  author's  power. 
The  way  in  which  the  sound  and  sense  are  suddenly 
broken  off  and  shifted,  four  lines  from  the  end,  is 
wonderful  for  effect  and  success.  M.  Baudelaire's 
mastery  of  the  sonnet  form  is  worth  remarking  as 
a  test  of  his  natural  bias  towards  such  forms  of 
verse  as  are  most  nearly  capable  of  perfection. 
In  a  book  of  this  sort,  such  a  leaning  of  the  writer's 
mind  is  almost  necessary.  The  matters  treated  of 
will  bear  no  rough  or  hasty  handling.  Only  su- 
preme excellence  of  words  will  suffice  to  grapple 
writh  and  fitly  render  the  effects  of  such  material. 
Not  the  luxuries  of  pleasure  in  their  simple  first 
form,  but  the  sharp  and  cruel  enjoyments  of  pain, 
the  acrid  relish  of  suffering  felt  or  inflicted,  the 
sides  on  which  nature  looks  unnatural,  go  to  make 
up  the  stuff  and  substance  of  this  poetry.  Very 
good  material  they  make,  too;  but  evidently  such 
things  are  unfit  for  rapid  or  careless  treatment. 
The  main  charm  of  the  book  is,  upon  the  whole, 
that  nothing  is  wrongly  given,  nothing  capable  of 
being  re-written  or  improved  on  its  own  ground. 
Concede  the  starting  point,  and  you  cannot  have 
a  better  runner. 

Thus,  even  of  the  loathsomest  bodily  putrescence 


40  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

and  decay  he  can  make  some  noble  use;  pluck  out 
its  meaning  and  secret,  even  its  beauty,  in  a  certain 
way,  from  actual  carrion;  as  here,  of  the  flies  bred 
in  a  carcase. 

"Tout  cela  descendait,  montait  comme  une  vague; 
Ou  s'elancaint  en  petillant. 
On  eut  dit  que  le  corps,  enfle  d'un  souffle  vague, 
Vivait  en  se  multipliant. 

"Et  ce  monde  rendait  une  etrange  musique, 
Comme  l'eau  courante  et  le  vent, 
Ou  le  grain  qu'un  vanneur  d'un  mouvement  rhythmique 
Agite  et  tourne  dans  son  van." 

Another  of  this  poet's  noblest  sonnets  is  that  A 
une  Passante,  comparable  with  a  similar  one  of 
Keats,  "Time's  sea  hath  been  five  years  at  its  slow 
ebb,"  but  superior  for  directness  of  point  and 
forcible  reality.  Here  for  once  the  beauty  of  a 
poem  is  rather  passionate  than  sensuous.  Com- 
pare the  delicate  emblematic  manner  in  which 
Keats  winds  up  his  sonnet  to  this  sharp  perfect 
finale : — 

"Fugitive  beaute 
Dont  le  regard  m'a  fait  soudainement  renaitre, 
Ne  te  verrai-je  plus  que  dans  l'eternite? 
Ailleurs,  bien  loin  d'ici,  trop  tard  !  j  amais  peut-etre ! 
Car  j 'ignore  ou  tu  fuis,  tu  ne  sais  ou  je  vais, 
O  toi  que  j'eusse  aimee,  6  toi  qui  le  savais !" 

There  is  noticeable  also  in  M.  Baudelaire's  work 
a  quality  of  drawing  which  recalls  the  exquisite 
power  in  the  same  way  of  great  French  artists  now 
living.     His  studies  are  admirable  for  truth  and 


Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai    41 

grace;  his  figure-painting  has  the  ease  and 
strength,  the  trained  skill,  and  beautiful  gentle 
justice  of  manner,  which  come  out  in  such  pictures 
as  the  Source  of  Ingres,  or  that  other  splendid 
study  by  Flandrin,  of  a  curled-up  naked  figure 
under  full  soft  hot  light,  now  exhibiting  here.1 
These  verses  of  Baudelaire's  are  as  perfect  and 
good  as  either. 

".     .     .     Tes    sourcils    mechants 
Te  donnent  un  air  etrange, 
Qui  n'est  part  cclui  d'un  ange, 
Sorciere  aux  yeux  allechants 

"Sur  ta  chair  le  parfum  rode 
Comme  autour  d'un  encensoir ; 
Tu  charmes  comme  le  soir, 
Nymphe  tenebreuse  et  chaude. 

"Le  desert  et  la  foret 
Embaument  tes  tresses  rudes ; 
Ta  tete  a  les  attitudes 
De  l'enigme  et  du  secret. 

"Tes  handles  sont  amoureuses 
De  ton  dos  et  de  tes  seins, 
Et  tu  ravis  les  coussins 
Par  tes  poses  langoureuses." 

Nothing  can  beat  that  as  a  piece  of  beautiful 
drawing. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  say  something  about 
the  moral  and  meaning  of  many  among  these 
poems.  Certain  critics,  who  will  insist  on  going 
into  this  matter,  each  man  as  deep  as  his  small 

i Written  in  1862— Ed. 


42  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

leaden  plummet  will  reach,  have  discovered  what 
they  call  a  paganism  on  the  spiritual  side  of  this 
author's  tone  of  thought.  Stripped  of  its  coating 
of  jargon,  this  may  mean  that  the  poet  spoken  of 
endeavours  to  look  at  most  things  with  the  eye  of 
an  old-world  poet;  that  he  aims  at  regaining  the 
clear  and  simple  view  of  writers  content  to  believe 
in  the  beauty  of  material  subjects.  To  us,  if  this 
were  the  meaning  of  these  people,  we  must  say 
it  seems  a  foolish  one ;  for  there  is  not  one  of  these 
poems  that  could  have  been  written  in  a  time  when 
it  was  not  the  fashion  to  dig  for  moral  motives  and 
conscious  reasons.  Poe,  for  example,  has  written 
poems  without  any  moral  meaning  at  all;  there  is 
not  one  poem  of  the  Fleurs  du  Mai  which  has  not  a 
distinct  and  vivid  background  of  morality  to  it. 
Only  this  moral  side  of  the  book  is  not  thrust  for- 
ward in  the  foolish  and  repulsive  manner  of  a  half- 
taught  artist;  the  background,  as  we  called  it,  is 
not  out  of  drawing.  If  any  reader  could  extract 
from  any  poem  a  positive  spiritual  medicine — if  he 
could  swallow  a  sonnet  like  a  moral  prescription — 
than  clearly  the  poet  supplying  these  intellectual 
drugs  would  be  a  bad  artist;  indeed,  no  real  artist, 
but  a  huckster  and  vendor  of  miscellaneous  wares. 
But  those  who  will  look  for  them  may  find  morali- 
ties in  plenty  behind  every  poem  of  M.  Baude- 
laire's; such  poems  especially  as  Une  Martyr e. 
Like  a  mediaeval  preacher,  when  he  has  drawn  the 
heathen  love,  he  puts  sin  on  its  right  hand  and 
death  on  its  left.  It  is  not  his  or  any  artist's  busi- 
ness to  warn  against  evil ;  but  certainly  he  does  not 


Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai     43 

exhort  to  it,  knowing  well  enough  that  the  one 
fault  is  as  great  as  the  other. 

But  into  all  this  we  do  not  advise  any  one  to 
enter  who  can  possibly  keep  out  of  it.  When  a 
book  has  been  so  violently  debated  over,  so  hauled 
this  way  and  that  by  contentious  critics,  the  one 
intent  on  finding  that  it  means  something  mis- 
chievous, and  the  other  intent  on  finding  that  it 
means  something  useful,  those  who  are  in  search 
neither  of  a  poisonous  compound  nor  of  a  cathartic 
drug  had  better  leave  the  disputants  alone,  or  take 
only  such  notice  of  them  as  he  absolutely  must 
take.  Allegory  is  the  dullest  game  and  the  most 
profitless  taskwork  imaginable;  but  if  so  minded 
a  reader  might  extract  most  elaborate  meanings 
from  this  poem  of  Une  Martyre;  he  might  discover 
a  likeness  between  the  Muse  of  the  writer  and  that 
strange  figure  of  a  beautiful  body  with  the  head 
severed,  laid  apart 

"Sur  la  table  de  nuit  comme  une  renoncule." 

The  heavy  "mass  of  dark  mane  and  heap  of  pre- 
cious jewels"  might  mean  the  glorious  style  and 
decorative  language  clothing  this  poetry  of  strange 
disease  and  sin;  the  hideous  violence  wrought  by  a 
shameless  and  senseless  love  might  stand  as  an 
emblem  of  that  analysis  of  things  monstrous  and 
sorrowful,  which  stamps  the  whole  book  with  its 
special  character.  Then  again,  the  divorce  be- 
tween all  aspiration  and  its  results  might  be  here 
once  more  given  in  type;  the  old  question  re- 
handled  : — 


44  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

"What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared?" 

and  the  sorrowful  final  divorce  of  will  from  deed 
accomplished  at  last  by  force ;  and  the  whole  thing 
summed  up  in  that  noble  last  stanza: — 

"Ton  epoux  court  le  monde;  et  ta  forme  immortelle 
Veille  pres  de  lui  quand  il  dort; 
Autant  que  toi  sans  doute  il  te  sera  fidele, 
Et  constant  j  usque  a  la  mort." 

All  this  and  more  might  be  worked  out  if  the 
reader  cared  to  try;  but  we  hope  he  would  not. 
The  poem  is  quite  beautiful  and  valuable  enough 
as  merely  the  "design  of  an  unknown  master." 
In  the  same  way  one  might  use  up  half  the  poems 
in  the  book;  for  instance,  those  three  beautiful 
studies  of  cats  (fitly  placed  in  a  book  that  has  al- 
together a  feline  style  of  beauty — subtle,  luxurious, 
with  sheathed  claws)  ;  or  such  carefully  tender 
sketches  as  Le  Beau  Navire;  or  that  Latin  hymn 
"Franciscae  meae:" — 

"Novis  te  cantabo  chordis, 
O  novelletum  quod  ludis 
In  solitudine  cordis. 
Esto  sertis   implicata, 
O  foemina  delicata 
Per  quam  solvuntur  peccata!" 

Some  few  indeed,  as  that  ex-voto  poem  A  une 
Mad  one ,  appeal  at  once  to  the  reader  as  to  an  in- 
terpreter; they  are  distinctly  of  a  mystical  moral 
turn,  and  in  that  rich  symbolic  manner  almost  un- 
surpassable for  beauty. 


Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai     45 

"Avec  mes  Vers  polis,  treillis  d'un  pur  metal 
Savamment  constelle  de  rimes  de  cristal, 
Je  ferai  pour  ta  tete  une  enorme  Couronne; 
Et  dans  ma  Jalousie,  6  mortelle  Madone, 
Je  saurai  te  tailler  un  manteau,  de  facon 
Barbare,  roide  et  lourd  et  double  de  soupcon, 
Qui  comme  une  guerite  enfermera  tes  charmes; 
Non  de  Perles  brode,  mais  de  toutes  mes  Larmes ! 
Ta  Robe,  ce  sera  mon  Desir,  fremissant, 
Onduleux,  mon  Desir  qui  monte  et  qui  descend, 
Aux  pointes  se  suspend,  aux  vallons  se  repose, 
Et  revet  d'un  baiser  tout  ton  corps  blanc  et  rose." 

Before  passing  on  to  the  last  poem  we  wish  to 
indicate  for  especial  remark,  we  may  note  a  few 
others  in  which  this  singular  strength  of  finished 
writing  is  most  evident.  Such  are,  for  instance, 
Le  Cygne,  Le  Poison,  Tristesses  de  la  Lune, 
Remord  Posthume,  Le  Flaeon,  del  Brouille,  Une 
Mendiante  Rousse  (a  simpler  study  than  usual,  of 
great  beauty  in  all  ways,  noticeable  for  its  revival 
of  the  old  fashion  of  unmixed  masculine  rhymes), 
Le  Balcon,  AUegorie,  1/ Amour  et  le  Crane,  and 
the  two  splendid  sonnets  marked  xxvii.  and  xlii. 
We  cite  these  headings  in  no  sort  of  order,  merely 
as  they  catch  one's  eye  in  revising  the  list  of  con- 
tents and  recall  the  poems  classed  there.  Each  of 
them  we  regard  as  worth  a  separate  study,  but  the 
Litanies  de  Satan,  as  in  a  way  the  key-note  to  this 
whole  complicated  tune  of  poems,  we  had  set  aside 
for  the  last,  much  as  (to  judge  by  its  place  in  the 
book)  the  author  himself  seems  to  have  done. 

Here  it  seems  as  if  all  failure  and  sorrow  on 
earth,  and  all  the  cast-out  things  of  the  world — 


46  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

ruined  bodies  and  souls  diseased — made  their  ap- 
peal, in  default  of  help,  to  Him  in  whom  all  sorrow 
and  all  failure  were  incarnate.  As  a  poem,  it  is 
one  of  the  noblest  lyrics  ever  written ;  the  sound  of 
it  between  wailing  and  triumph,  as  it  were  the  blast 
blown  by  the  trumpets  of  a  brave  army  in  irre- 
trievable defeat. 

"O  toi  qui  de  la  Mort,  ta  vieille  et  forte  amante, 

Engendras  l'Esperance — une  f olle  charmante ! 

O  Satan,  prends  pitie  de  ma  longue  misere ! 

Toi  qui  fais  au  proscrit  ce  regard  calme  et  haut 

Qui  damne  tout  un  peuple  autout  d'un  echafaud, 

O  Satan,  prends  pitie  de  ma  longue  misere ! 

"Toi  qui,  magiquement,  assouplis  les  vieux  os 
De  l'ivrogne  attarde  foule  par  les  chevaux, 

O  Satan,  prends  pitie  de  ma  longue  misere ! 
Toi  qui,  pour  consoler  l'homme  frele  qui  souffre, 
Nous  appris  a  meler  le  salpetre  et  le  soufre, 
O  Satan,  prends  pitie  de  ma  longue  misere !" 

These  lines  are  not  given  as  more  finished  than 
the  rest;  every  verse  has  the  vibration  in  it  of 
naturally  sound  and  pure  metal.  It  is  a  study  of 
metrical  cadence  throughout,  of  wonderful  force 
and  variety.  Perhaps  it  may  be  best,  without 
further  attempts  to  praise  or  to  explain  the  book, 
here  to  leave  off,  with  its  stately  and  passionate 
music  fresh  in  our  ears.  We  know  that  in  time 
it  must  make  its  way;  and  to  know  when  or  how 
concerns  us  as  little  as  it  probably  concerns  the  au- 
thor, who  can  very  well  afford  to  wait  without 
much  impatience. 


IV 
SIMEON  SOLOMON 

NOTES  ON  HIS  "VISION  OF  LOVE"  AND  OTHER  STUDIES 

1871 


SIMEON  SOLOMON 

NOTES  ON  HIS  "VISION  OF  LOVE"  AND  OTHER  STUDIES 

IF  it  may  be  said  with  perfect  accuracy  that  in 
all  plastic  art,  whether  the  language  chosen 
be  of  words  or  forms,  of  sounds  or  colours, 
beauty  is  the  only  truth,  and  nothing  not 
beautiful  is  true;  yet  this  axiom  of  a  great  living 
artist  and  critic  must  not  be  so  construed  as  to  im- 
ply forgetfulness  of  the  manifold  and  multiform 
nature  of  beauty.  To  one  interpreter  the  terror 
or  the  pity  of  it,  the  shadow  or  the  splendour,  will 
appear  as  its  main  aspect,  as  that  which  gives  him 
his  fittest  material  for  work  or  speech,  the  sub- 
stance most  pliable  to  his  spirit,  the  form  most 
suggestive  to  his  hand;  to  another  its  simplicity 
or  its  mystery,  its  community  or  its  specialty  of 
gifts.  Each  servant  serves  under  the  compulsion 
of  his  own  charm;  each  spirit  has  its  own  chain. 
Upon  men  in  whom  there  is,  so  to  speak,  a  com- 
pound genius,  an  intermixture  of  spiritual  forces, 
a  confluence  of  separate  yet  conspiring  influences, 
diverse  in  source  yet  congruous  in  result — upon 
men  in  whose  eyes  the  boundary  lines  of  the  sev- 
eral conterminous  arts  appear  less  as  lines  of  mere 
distinction  than  as  lines  of  mutual  alliance — the 
impression  of  the  mystery  in  all  beauty,  and  in  all 
defects  that  fall  short  of  it,  and  in  all  excesses 
that  overbear  it,  is  likely  to  have  a  special  hold. 

49 


50  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

The  subtle  interfusion  of  art  with  art,  of  sound 
with  form,  of  vocal  words  with  silent  colours,  is  as 
perceptible  to  the  sense  and  as  inexplicable  to  the 
understanding  of  such  men  as  the  interfusion  of 
spirit  with  flesh  is  to  all  men  in  common;  and  in 
fact  when  perceived  of  no  less  significance  than 
this,  but  rather  a  part  and  complement  of  the 
same  truth.  One  of  such  artists,  and  at  once  rec- 
ognisable as  such,  is  Mr.  Simeon  Solomon.  There 
is  not,  for  instance,  more  of  the  painter's  art  in  the 
verse  of  Keats  than  of  the  musician's  in  Solomon's 
designs.  As  surely  as  the  mystery  of  beauty — 
a  mystery  "most  glad  and  sad"  as  Chaucer  says 
of  a  woman's  mouth — was  done  into  colour  of 
verse  for  ever  unsurpassable  in  the  odes  "To  a 
Nightingale"  and  on  "Melancholy,"  so  is  the  same 
secret  wrought  into  perfect  music  of  outline  by  the 
painter.  The  "unheard  melodies,"  which  Keats, 
with  a  sense  beyond  the  senses,  perceived  and  en- 
joyed in  the  forms  of  his  Grecian  urn,  vibrate  in 
the  forms  of  this  artist's  handiwork;  and  all  their 
lines  and  colours, 

"Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but  more  endeared, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone." 

Since  the  first  years  of  his  very  early  and  bril- 
liant celebrity  as  a  young  artist  of  high  imagina- 
tive power  and  promise,  Mr.  Solomon  has  been 
at  work  long  enough  to  enable  us  to  define  at  least 
certain  salient  and  dominant  points  of  his  genius. 
It  holds  at  once  of  east  and  west,  of  Greek  and 
Hebrew.     So  much  indeed  does  this  fresh  inter- 


Simeon  Solomon  51 

fusion  of  influences  give  tone  and  shape  to  his 
imagination  that  I  have  heard  him  likened  on  this 
ground  to  Heine,  as  a  kindred  Hellenist  of  the 
Hebrews.  Grecian  form  and  beauty  divide  the 
allegiance  of  his  spirit  with  Hebraic  shadow  and 
majesty:  depths  of  cloud  unsearchable  and  sum- 
mits unsurmountable  of  fire  darken  and  lighten 
before  the  vision  of  a  soul  enamoured  of  soft  light 
and  clear  water,  of  leaves  and  flowers  and  limbs 
more  lovely  than  these.  For  no  painter  has  more 
love  of  loveliness;  but  the  fair  forms  of  godhead 
and  manhood  which  in  ancient  art  are  purely  and 
merely  beautiful  rise  again  under  his  hand  with 
the  likeness  on  them  of  a  new  thing,  the  shadow 
of  a  new  sense,  the  hint  of  a  new  meaning;  their 
eyes  have  seen  in  sleep  or  waking,  in  substance 
or  reflection,  some  change  now  past  or  passing  or 
to  come;  their  lips  have  tasted  a  new  savour  in 
the  wine  of  life,  one  strange  and  alien  to  the  vint- 
age of  old;  they  know  of  something  beyond  form 
and  outside  of  speech.  There  is  a  questioning 
wonder  in  their  faces,  a  fine  joy  and  a  faint  sor- 
row, a  trouble  as  of  water  stirred,  a  delight  as  of 
thirst  appeased.  Always,  at  feast  or  sacrifice,  in 
chamber  or  in  field,  the  air  and  carriage  of  their 
beauty  has  something  in  it  of  strange:  hardly  a 
figure  but  has  some  touch,  though  never  so  deli- 
cately slight,  either  of  eagerness  or  of  weariness, 
some  note  of  expectancy  or  of  satiety,  some  sem- 
blance of  outlook  or  inlook:  but  prospective  or  in- 
trospective, an  expression  is  there  which  is  not 
pure  Greek,  a  shade  or  tone  of  thought  or  feeling 


52  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

beyond  Hellenic  contemplation;  whether  it  be 
oriental  or  modern  in  its  origin,  and  derived  from 
national  or  personal  sources.  This  passionate 
sentiment  of  mystery  seems  at  times  to  "o'erin- 
form  its  tenement"  of  line  and  colour,  and  impress 
itself  even  to  perplexity  upon  the  sense  of  the 
spectator.  The  various  studies,  all  full  of  sub- 
tleties and  beauties  definable  and  not  definable, 
to  which  the  artist  has  given  for  commentary  the 
graceful  mysticism  of  a  symbolic  rhapsody  in 
prose,  are  also  full  to  overflowing  of  such  senti- 
ment. Read  by  itself  as  a  fragment  of  spiritual 
allegory,  this  written  "Vision  of  Love  revealed  in 
Sleep"  seems  to  want  even  that  much  coherence 
which  is  requisite  to  keep  symbolic  or  allegoric 
art  from  absolute  dissolution  and  collapse;  that 
unity  of  outline  and  connection  of  purpose,  that 
gradation  of  correlative  parts  and  significance  of 
corresponsive  details,  without  which  the  whole 
aerial  and  tremulous  fabric  of  symbolism  must 
decompose  into  mere  confusion  of  formless  and 
fruitless  chaos.  Even  allegory  or  prophecy  must 
live  and  work  by  rule  as  well  as  by  rapture;  trans- 
parent it  need  not  be,  but  it  must  be  translucent. 
And  translucent  the  fluctuating  twilight  of  this 
rhapsody  does  become  in  time,  with  the  light  be- 
hind it  of  the  designs;  though  at  first  it  seems  as 
hard  to  distinguish  one  incarnation  of  love  or  sleep 
or  charity  from  the  next  following  as  to  disen- 
tangle the  wings  and  wheels  of  Ezekiel's  cheru- 
bim, or  to  discover  and  determine  the  respective 
properties  and  qualities  of  Blake's  "emanations" 


Simeon  Solomon  53 

and  "spectres."  The  style  is  soft,  fluent,  genu- 
inely melodious ;  it  has  nothing  of  inflation  or  con- 
straint. There  is  almost  a  superflux  of  images 
full  of  tender  colour  and  subtle  grace,  which  is 
sure  to  lead  the  writer  into  some  danger  of  con- 
fusion and  repetition;  and  in  such  vague  and  un- 
certain ground  any  such  stumbling-blocks  are 
likely  to  be  especial  rocks  of  offence  to  the  feet 
of  the  traveller.  Throughout  the  whole  there  is 
as  it  were  a  suffusion  of  music,  a  transpiration  of 
light  and  sound,  very  delicately  and  surely  sus- 
tained. There  are  thoughts  and  fragments  of 
thoughts,  fancies  and  fantastic  symbols,  some- 
times of  rare  beauty  and  singular  force;  in  this 
for  instance,  of  Night  as  a  mother  watching  Sleep 
her  child,  there  is  a  greater  height  and  sweetness 
of  imagination  than  in  any  but  the  sweetest  and 
highest  poetic  allegories.  "And  she,  to  whom  all 
was  as  an  open  scroll,  wept  when  she  looked  upon 
him  whose  heart  was  as  the  heart  of  a  little  child." 
The  depth  and  tenderness  of  this  conception  of 
Night,  omniscient  with  the  conscience  of  all  things 
wrought  under  her  shadow,  world-wide  of  sight 
and  sway,  and  wise  with  all  the  world's  wisdom, 
weeping  for  love  over  the  innocence  of  her  first- 
born, is  great  and  perfect  enough  for  the  noblest 
verse  of  a  poet.  The  same  affluence  and  delicacy 
of  emblems  interwoven  with  every  part  of  the 
allegory  is  kept  up  from  the  first  dawn  of  memory 
to  the  last  transfiguration  of  love.  There  is  an 
exquisite  touch  in  the  first  vision  of  Memory 
standing  by  the  sea-side  with  the  shell  held  to  her 


54  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

ear  whose  voice  "unburied  the  dead  cycles  of  the 
soul,"  with  autumn  leaves  showered  on  head  and 
breast,  "and  upon  her  raiment  small  flecks  of  foam 
had  already  dried;"  this  last  emblem  of  the  salt 
small  foam-flecks,  sharp  and  arid  waifs  of  the  un- 
quiet sea  of  life,  light  and  bitter  strays  of  barren 
thought  and  remembrance  with  the  freshness 
dried  out  of  them,  is  beautiful  and  new.  Dim  and 
vague  as  the  atmosphere  of  such  work  should  be, 
this  vision  would  be  more  significant,  and  not  less 
suggestive  of  things  hidden  in  secret  places  of 
spiritual  reserve,  if  it  had  more  body  of  drawing, 
more  shapeliness  of  thought  and  fixity  of  outline. 
Not  that  we  Would  seek  for  solidity  in  shadow,  or 
blame  the  beauty  of  luminous  clouds  for  confusion 
of  molten  outlines;  but  even  in  cloud  there  is  some 
law  of  form,  some  continuous  harmony  of  line  and 
mass,  that  only  dissolves  and  changes  "as  a  tune 
into  a  tune."  To  invigorate  and  support  this  fair 
frame  of  allegory  there  should  be  some  clearer  in- 
fusion of  a  purpose;  there  should  be  some  thread 
of  clearer  connection,  some  filament,  though  never 
so  slender,  to  link  vision  again  to  vision,  some  clue, 
"as  subtle  as  Arachne's  broken  woof,"  to  lead  the 
reader's  perception  through  the  labyrinth  of 
sounds  and  shapes.  Each  new  revelation  and 
change  of  aspect  has  beauty  and  meaning  of  its 
own;  but  even  in  a  dream  the  steps  of  progress 
seem  clearer  than  here,  and  the  process  from  stage 
to  stage  of  action  or  passion  is  ruled  after  some 
lawless  law  and  irrational  reason  of  its  own. 
Such  process  as  this  at  least  we  might  hope  to  find 


Simeon  Solomon  55 

even  in  the  records  of  allegoric  vision;  in  this  mys- 
tery or  tragedy  of  the  passion  of  a  divine  sufferer 
"wounded  in  the  house  of  his  friends"  and  bleed- 
ing from  the  hands  of  men,  those  who  follow  the 
track  of  his  pilgrimage  might  desire  at  least  to 
be  shown  the  stations  of  his  cross.  We  miss  the 
thread  of  union  between  the  varying  visions  of 
love  forsaken  and  shamed,  wounded  and  for- 
gotten; of  guileless  and  soulless  pleasure  in  its 
naked  and  melodious  maidenhood,  and  passion 
that  makes  havoc  of  love,  and  after  that  even  of 
itself  also;  of  death  and  silence,  and  of  sleep  and 
time.  Many  of  these  have  in  them  the  sweetness 
and  depth  of  good  dreams,  and  much  subtle  and 
various  beauty;  and  had  we  but  some  clue  to  the 
gradations  of  its  course,  we  might  thread  our  way 
through  the  Daedalian  maze  with  a  free  sense  of 
gratitude  to  the  artificer  whose  cunning  reared  it 
to  hide  no  monstrous  thing,  but  one  of  divine  like- 
ness. It  might  have  been  well  to  issue  with  the 
text  some  further  reproductions  of  the  designs: 
those  especially  of  the  wounded  Love  from  whose 
heart's  blood  the  roses  break  into  blossom,  of  Desire 
with  body  and  raiment  dishevelled  and  deformed 
from  self-inflicted  strokes,  of  Divine  Charity  bear- 
ing Sleep  down  to  the  dark  earth  among  men  that 
suffer,  of  Love  upborne  by  the  strong  arms  and 
wings  of  Time,  of  the  spirit  that  watches  in  the 
depth  of  its  crystal  sphere  the  mutable  reflections 
of  the  world  and  the  revolutions  of  its  hidden 
things;  all  designs  full  of  mystical  attraction  and 
passion,  of  bitter  sweetness  and  burning  beauty. 


56  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Outside  the  immediate  cycle  of  this  legend  of 
love  divine  and  human,  the  artist  has  done  much 
other  work  of  a  cognate  kind;  his  sketches  and 
studies  in  this  line  have  always  the  charm  of  a 
visible  enjoyment  in  the  vigorous  indulgence  of 
a  natural  taste  and  power.  One  of  these,  a  noble 
study  of  "Sleepers  and  One  that  Watches,"  has 
been  translated  into  verse  of  kindred  strength  and 
delicacy,  in  three  fine  sonnets  of  high  rank  among 
the  clear-cut  and  exquisite  "Intaglios"  of  Mr. 
John  Payne.  But  the  artist  is  not  a  mere  cloud- 
compeller,  a  dreamer  on  the  wing  who  cannot  use 
his  feet  for  good  travelling  purpose  on  hard 
ground;  witness  the  admirable  picture  of  Roman 
ladies  at  a  show  of  gladiators,  exhibited  in  1865, 
which  remains  still  his  masterpiece  of  large 
dramatic  realism  and  live  imagination.  All  the 
heads  are  full  of  personal  force  and  character, 
especially  the  woman's  with  heavy  brilliant  hair 
and  glittering  white  skin,  like  hard  smooth  snow 
against  the  sunlight,  the  delicious  thirst  and  subtle 
raving  of  sensual  hunger  for  blood  visibly  en- 
kindled in  every  line  of  the  sweet  fierce  features. 
Mr.  Solomon  apparently  has  sufficient  sense  of 
physiology  to  share  the  theory  which  M.  Alphonse 
Karr  long  since  proposed  to  develope  at  length  in 
a  systematic  treatise  "sur  la  ferocite  des  blondes." 
The  whole  spirit  of  this  noble  picture  is  imbued 
with  the  proper  tragic  beauty  and  truth  and  terror. 

As  the  Hebrew  love  of  dim  vast  atmosphere  and 
infinite  spiritual  range  without  foothold  on  earth 
or  resting-place  in  nature   is   perceptible   in  the 


Simeon  Solomon  57 

mystic  and  symbolic  cast  of  so  many  sketches  and 
studies,  so  is  a  certain  loving  interest  in  the  old 
sacred  forms,  in  the  veiy  body  of  historic  tradi- 
tion, made  manifest  in  various  more  literal  designs 
of  actual  religious  offices.  One  series  of  such 
represents  on  a  small  scale,  with  singular  force 
and  refinement,  the  several  ceremonies  of  the 
sacred  seasons  and  festivals  of  the  Jewish  year. 
Other  instances  of  this  ceremonial  bias  towards 
religious  forms  of  splendour  or  solemnity  are  fre- 
quent in  the  list  of  the  painter's  works;  gorgeous 
studies  of  eastern  priests  in  church  or  synagogue, 
of  young  saint  and  rabbi  and  Greek  bishop  do- 
ing their  divine  service  in  "full-blown  dignity"  of 
official  magic.  I  remember  faces  among  them 
admirable  for  holy  heaviness  of  feature  and  som- 
bre stolidity  of  sanctitude.  No  Venetian  ever 
took  truer  delight  in  glorious  vestures,  in  majestic 
embroideries,  in  the  sharp  deep  sheen  and  glowing 
refraction  of  golden  vessels;  none  of  them  ever 
lusted  more  hotly  after  the  solid  splendours  of 
metal  and  marble,  the  grave  glories  of  purple  rai- 
ment and  gleaming  cup  or  censer.  This  same 
magnificence  gives  tone  and  colour  to  his  classic 
subjects  which  explains  their  kinship  to  designs 
apparently  so  diverse  in  aim.  Modern  rather 
than  classical,  as  we  have  noticed,  in  sentiment  and 
significance,  they  combine  the  fervent  violence  of 
feeling  or  faith  which  is  peculiar  to  the  Hebrews 
with  the  sensitive  acuteness  of  desire,  the  sublime 
reserve  and  balance  of  passion,  which  is  peculiar 
to    the    Greeks.     Something   of    Ezekiel    is    here 


58  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

mixed  with  something  of  Anacreon;  here  the 
Anthology  and  the  Apocalypse  have  each  set  a 
distinct  mark:  the  author  of  the  Canticles  and  the 
author  of  the  Atys  have  agreed  for  a  while  to  work 
together.  The  grievous  and  glorious  result  of 
aspiration  and  enjoyment  is  here  legible;  the  sad- 
ness that  is  latent  in  gladness;  the  pleasure  that 
is  palpable  in  pain.  Fixed  eyes  and  fervent  lips 
are  full  of  divine  disquiet  and  instinctive  resigna- 
tion. All  the  sorrow  of  the  senses  is  incarnate  in 
the  mournful  and  melodious  beauty  of  those  faces; 
they  have  learnt  to  abstain  from  wishing;  they  are 
learning  to  abstain  from  hope.  Especially  in  such 
works  as  the  "Sappho"  and  the  "Antinous"  of 
some  years  since  does  this  unconscious  underlying 
sense  assert  itself.  The  wasted  and  weary  beauty 
of  the  one,  the  faultless  and  fruitful  beauty  of  the 
other,  bear  alike  the  stamp  of  sorrow;  of  perplex- 
ities unsolved  and  desires  unsatisfied.  They  are 
not  the  divine  faces  familiar  to  us:  the  lean  and 
dusky  features  of  this  Sappho  are  unlike  those  of 
her  traditional  bust,  so  clear,  firm,  and  pure;  this 
Antinous  is  rather  like  Ampelus  than  Bacchus. 
But  the  heart  and  soul  of  these  pictures  none  can 
fail  to  recognise  as  right;  and  the  decoration  is  in 
all  its  details  noble  and  significant.  The  clinging 
arms  and  labouring  lips  of  Sappho,  her  fiery  pal- 
lor and  swooning  eyes,  the  bitter  and  sterile 
savour  of  subsiding  passion  which  seems  to  sharpen 
the  mouth  and  draw  down  the  eyelids,  translate 
as  far  as  colour  can  translate  her.  The  face  and 
figure    beside   her   are    soulless    and   passive,    the 


Simeon  Solomon  59 

beauty  inert  as  a  flower's;  the  violent  spirit  that 
aspires,  the  satisfied  body  that  takes  rest,  are  here 
seen  as  it  were  in  types;  the  division  of  pure  soul 
and  of  mere  flesh;  the  powerful  thing  that  lives 
without  peace,  and  the  peaceful  thing  that  vege- 
tates without  power.  In  the  "  Sacrifice  of  An- 
tinous,"  he  officiates  before  the  god  under  the 
divine  disguise  of  Bacchus  himself;  the  curled  and 
ample  hair,  the  pure  splendour  of  faultless  cheek 
and  neck,  the  leopard-skin  and  thyrsus,  are  all  of 
the  god,  and  god-like;  the  mournful  wonderful 
lips  and  eyes  are  coloured  with  mortal  blood  and 
lighted  with  human  vision.  In  these  pictures  some 
obscure  suppressed  tragedy  of  thought  and  pas- 
sion and  fate  seems  latent  as  the  vital  veins  under 
a  clear  skin.  Intentionally  or  not  as  it  may  be, 
some  utter  sorrow  of  soul,  some  world-old  hope- 
lessness of  heart,  mixed  with  the  strong  sweet 
sense  of  power  and  beauty,  has  here  been  cast 
afresh  into  types.  Elsewhere  again,  as  in  an 
earlier  drawing  which  my  remembrance  makes 
much  of,  this  dim  tragic  undertone  is  absent. 
The  two  ministering  maidens  in  the  Temple  of 
Venus  are  priestesses  of  no  sad  god,  preachers  of 
no  sad  thing.  They  have  not  seen  beyond  the 
day's  beauty,  nor  desired  a  delight  beyond  the 
hour's  capacity  to  give.  As  the  Epithalamium  of 
Catullus  to  his  Atys,  so  is  this  bright  and  sweet 
drawing  to  the  Sappho.  Here  all  is  clear  red  and 
pale  white,  the  serene  and  joyful  colours  of  pure 
marble  and  shed  rose-leaves:  there  dim  green  and 
shadows  of  dusky  grey  surround  and  sadden  the 


60  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

splendour  of  fair  faces  and  bright  limbs.  This 
artist  affects  soft  backgrounds  of  pale  southern 
foliage  and  the  sudden  slim  shoots  of  a  light 
southern  spring;  these  often  give  the  keynote  to 
his  designs,  always  adding  to  them  a  general  grace 
of  shape  and  gravity  of  tone  as  unmistakable  as 
any  other  special  quality  of  work.  But  here 
nothing  is  deeper  or  darker  than  the  fallen  petals 
which  spot  the  fair  pavement  of  the  temple.  One 
girl,  white-robed  and  radiant  as  white  water-flow- 
ers, has  half  let  fall  the  rose  that  droops  in  her 
hand,  dropping  leaf  by  leaf  like  tears;  both  have 
the  languor  and  the  fruitful  air  of  flowers  in  a 
sultry  place;  their  leaning  limbs  and  fervent  faces 
are  full  of  the  goddess;  their  lips  and  eyes  allure 
and  await  the  invisible  attendant  Loves.  The 
clear  pearl-white  cheeks  and  tender  mouths  have 
still  about  them  the  subtle  purity  of  sleep;  the 
whole  drawing  has  upon  it  the  heavy  incumbent 
light  of  summer  but  half  awake.  Nothing  of 
more  simple  and  brilliant  beauty  has  been  done 
of  late  years.  Here  the  spirit  of  joy  is  pure  and 
whole;  but  a  spirit  more  common  is  that  which 
foresees  without  eyes  and  forehears  without  ears 
the  far-off  features  and  the  soundless  feet  of 
change;  such  a  spirit  as  dictated  the  choice  of  sub- 
ject in  a  picture  of  two  young  lovers  in  fresh  full- 
ness of  first  love  crossed  and  troubled  visibly  by 
the  mere  shadow  and  the  mere  breath  of  doubt, 
the  dream  of  inevitable  change  to  come  which  dims 
the  longing  eyes  of  the  girl  with  a  ghostly  fore- 
knowledge that  this  too  shall  pass  away,  as  with 


Simeon  Solomon  61 

arms  half  clinging  and  half  repellent  she  seems  at 
once  to  hold  off  and  to  hold  fast  the  lover  whose 
bright  youth  for  the  moment  is  smiling  back  in 
the  face  of  hers — a  face  full  of  the  soft  fear  and 
secret  certitude  of  future  things  which  I  have  tried 
elsewhere  to  render  in  the  verses  called  "Erotion" 
written  as  a  comment  on  this  picture,  with  design 
to  express  the  subtle  passionate  sense  of  mortality 
in  love  itself  which  wells  up  from  "the  middle 
spring  of  pleasure,"  yet  cannot  quite  kill  the  day's 
delight  or  eat  away  with  the  bitter  poison  of  doubt 
the  burning  faith  and  self-abandoned  fondness  of 
the  hour;  since  at  least,  though  the  future  be  for 
others,  and  the  love  now  here  turn  elsewhere  to 
seek  pasture  in  fresh  fields  from  other  flowers, 
the  vows  and  kisses  of  these  his  present  lips  are 
not  theirs  but  hers,  as  the  memory  of  his  love  and 
the  shadow  of  his  youth  shall  be  hers  for  ever. 

In  such  designs  the  sorrow  is  simple  as  the 
beauty,  the  spirit  simple  as  the  form;  in  others 
there  is  all  the  luxury  and  mystery  of  southern 
passion  and  eastern  dream.  Many  of  these,  as 
the  figure  bearing  the  eucharist  of  love,  have  a 
supersexual  beauty,  in  which  the  lineaments  of 
woman  and  of  man  seem  blended  as  the  lines  of 
sky  and  landscape  melt  in  burning  mist  of  heat 
and  light.  Others,  as  the  Bacchus,  have  about 
them  a  fleshly  glory  of  godhead  and  bodily  deity, 
which  holds  at  once  of  earth  and  heaven;  neither 
the  mystic  and  conquering  Indian  is  this  god,  nor 
the  fierce  choregus  of  Cithaeron.  The  artist's 
passionate  love   of  gorgeous  mysteries,   "prodig- 


62  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

ious  mixtures  and  confusions  strange"  of  sense 
and  spirit  no  less  than  "of  good  and  ill,"  has  given 
him  the  will  and  the  power  to  spiritualise  at  his 
pleasure,  by  the  height  and  splendour  of  his  treat- 
ment, the  somewhat  unspiritual  memory  of  Helio- 
gabalus,  "Emperor  of  Rome  and  High  Priest  of 
the  Sun,"  symbolic  in  that  strange  union  of  offices 
at  once  of  east  and  west,  of  ghostly  glory  and  vis- 
ible lordship,  of  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  and  the 
secrets  of  the  soul,  of  the  kingdom  of  this  world 
and  the  mystery  of  another:  the  superb  and  lux- 
urious power  and  subtlety  of  the  study  take  in 
both  aspects  of  his  figure,  the  strangest  surely 
that  ever  for  an  instant  overtopped  the  world. 

There  is  an  entire  class  of  Mr.  Solomon's  de- 
signs in  which  the  living  principle  and  moving 
spirit  is  music  made  visible.  His  groups  of  girls 
and  youths  that  listen  to  one  singing  or  reciting 
seem  utterly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  sound, 
clothed  with  music  as  with  a  garment,  kindled  and 
swayed  by  it  as  fire  or  as  foliage  by  a  wakening 
wind.  In  pictures  where  no  one  figures  as  making 
music,  the  same  fine  inevitable  sense  of  song  makes 
melodies  of  vocal  colour  and  symphonies  of 
painted  cadence.  The  beautiful  oil  painting  of 
bride,  bridegroom,  and  paranymph  has  in  its  deep 
ripe  tones  the  same  suffusion  of  sound  as  that  of 
the  evening  hymn  to  the  hours;  the  colours  have 
speech  in  them,  a  noble  and  solemn  speech,  and 
full  of  large  strong  harmonies.  In  the  visible 
"mystery  of  faith"  we  feel  the  same  mighty  meas- 
ures of  a  silent  song  go  up  with  the  elevation  of 


Simeon  Solomon  63 

the  host;  and  from  the  soundless  lips  of  Love  and 
Sleep,  of  Memory  and  of  Dreams,  of  Pleasure 
and  Lust  and  Death,  the  voice  of  their  manifold 
mystery  is  audible. 

In  almost  all  of  these  there  is  perceptible  the 
same  profound  suggestion  of  unity  between  oppo- 
sites,  the  same  recognition  of  the  identity  of  con- 
traries. Even  in  the  gatherings  of  children  about 
the  knees  of  Love,  as  he  tells  his  first  tales  to  elder 
and  younger  lads  and  girls,  there  are  touches  of 
trouble  and  distraction,  of  faint  doubt  and  form- 
less pain  on  the  fresh  earnest  faces  that  attend  in 
wonder  and  in  trance.  Even  in  the  glad  soft 
grouping  of  boys  and  maidens  by  "summer  twi- 
light," under  light  bloom  of  branches  that  play 
against  a  gracious  gleaming  sky,  their  clear 
smiles  and  swift  chance  gestures  recall  some 
thought  of  the  shadow  as  well  as  the  light  of  life; 
and  always  there  seems  to  rise  up  before  the  spirit, 
at  thought  of  the  might  and  ravage  of  time  and 
"sad  mortality,"  the  eternal  question — 

"How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower?" 

But  far  other  questions  than  this  rise  up  behind 
it,  as  we  gaze  into  the  great  and  terrible  mystery 
of  beauty,  and  turn  over  in  thought  the  gloss  of 
far  other  commentators,  the  scrolls  of  strange  in- 
terpreters, materialist  and  mystic.  In  the  features 
of  these  groups  and  figures  which  move  and  make 
music  before  us  in  the  dumb  show  of  lines  and 
colours,  we  see  the  latent  relations  of  pain  and 


64  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

pleasure,  the  subtle  conspiracies  of  good  with  evil, 
the  deep  alliances  of  death  and  life,  of  love  and 
hate,  of  attraction  and  abhorrence.  Whether  suf- 
fering or  enjoyment  be  the  master  expression  of 
a  face,  and  whether  that  enjoyment  or  that  suf- 
fering be  merely  or  mainly  spiritual  or  sensual, 
it  is  often  hard  to  say — hard  often  to  make  sure 
whether  the  look  of  loveliest  features  be  the  look 
of  a  cruel  or  a  pitiful  soul.  Sometimes  the  sen- 
sible vibration  as  of  living  lips  and  eyes  lets  out 
the  secret  spirit,  and  we  see  the  springs  of  its  in- 
ner and  confluent  emotions.  The  subtleties  and 
harmonies  of  suggestion  in  such  studies  of  complex 
or  it  may  be  perverse  nature  would  have  drawn 
forth  praise  and  sympathy  from  Baudelaire,  most 
loving  of  all  students  of  strange  beauty  and 
abnormal  refinement,  of  painful  pleasures  of  soul 
and  inverted  raptures  of  sense.  There  is  a  mix- 
ture of  utmost  delicacy  with  a  fine  cruelty  in  some 
of  these  faces  of  fair  feminine  youth  which  recalls 
the  explanation  of  a  philosopher  of  the  material 
school,  whose  doctrine  is  at  least  not  without  his- 
toric example  and  evidence  to  support  it:  "Une 
infinite  de  sots,  dupes  de  cette  incroyable  sensi- 
bilite  qu'ils  voient  dans  les  femmes,  ne  se  doutent 
pas  que  les  extremites  se  rapprochent,  et  que  c'est 
precisement  au  foyer  de  ce  sentiment  que  la  cru- 
aute  prend  sa  source.  Parce  que  la  cruaute 
n'est  elle-meme  qu'une  des  branches  de  la  sensi- 
bilite,  et  que  c'est  tou jours  en  raison  du  degre  dont 
nos  ames  en  sont  penetrees  que  les  grandes  hor- 
reurs  se  commettent."     The  matter  of  this  passage 


Simeon  Solomon  65 

is  better  than  the  style;  by  the  presence  of  this 
element  we  may  distinguish  cruelty  from  brutal- 
ity, a  Nero  from  a  Gallifet,  a  Brinvilliers  from 
a  "baby-farmer."  In  several  of  Mr.  Solomon's 
designs  we  find  heads  emblematic  of  active  or  vi- 
sionary passion  upon  which  the  seal  of  this  sensitive 
cruelty  is  set;  made  beautiful  beyond  the  beauty 
of  serpent  or  of  tiger  by  the  sensible  infusion  of 
a  soul  which  refines  to  a  more  delicate  delight  the 
mere  nervous  lust  after  blood,  the  mere  physical 
appetite  and  ravenous  relish  for  fleshly  torture; 
which  finds  out  the  very  "spirit  of  sense"  and  fine 
root  of  utmost  feeling  alike  in  the  patient  and  the 
agent  of  the  pain.  There  are  no  bestial  faces,  no 
mere  vile  types  of  brutality,  but  only  of  this  cun- 
ning and  cruel  sensibility  which  catches  fire  from 
the  stroke  it  deals,  and  drinks  as  its  wine  of  life 
the  blood  of  its  sentient  sacrifice.  The  poignancy 
of  this  pleasure  is  patent  and  fervent  in  the  face 
of  the  fair  woman  overlooking  the  fresh  full  agony 
in  the  circus;  the  aftertaste  of  fierce  weariness  and 
bitter  languor  that  corrodes  the  soul  is  perceptible 
in  the  aspect  of  the  figure  representing  Lust,  with 
haunted  eyes  and  savage  haggard  lips  and  barren 
body  scored  with  blood,  in  the  allegoric  design  of 
Love.  Other  faces  again  are  live  emblems  of  an 
infinite  tenderness,  of  sad  illimitable  pity,  of  the 
sweetness  of  utter  faith  and  ardour  that  consumes 
all  the  meaner  elements  of  life;  the  fiery  passion 
and  hunger  after  God  of  St.  Theresa,  who  might 
be  taken  as  patroness  of  the  Christian  side  of  this 
painter's  art:  one  whole  class  of  his  religious  de- 


66  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

signs  is  impregnated  with  the  burning  mysticism 
and  raging  rapture  of  her  visions,  reflected  as  we 
feel  them  in  Crashaw's  hymn  of  invocation  from 
the  furnace  of  her  own  fierce  words  and  phrases 
of  prostrate  ardour  and  amorous  appeal  to  her 
Bridegroom. 

All  great  and  exquisite  colourists  have  a  mys- 
tery of  their  own,  the  conscience  of  a  power  known 
to  themselves  only  as  the  heart  knows  its  own 
bitterness,  and  not  more  communicable  or  expli- 
cable. In  this  case  the  pictorial  power  is  so  mixed 
with  personal  quality,  so  informed  and  infused 
with  a  subtle  energy  of  sentiment,  that  a  student 
from  without  may  perhaps  be  able  to  note,  not 
quite  inaccurately  or  unprofitably,  the  main  spir- 
itual elements  of  the  painter's  work.  In  the 
work  of  some  artists  the  sentiment  is  either  a  blank 
or  a  mist;  and  none  but  technical  criticism  of  such 
work  can  be  other  than  incompetent  and  injuri- 
ous. The  art  of  Mr.  Solomon  is  of  a  kind  which 
has  inevitable  attraction  for  artists  of  another  sort, 
and  is  all  the  more  liable  to  suffer  from  the  ver- 
dicts of  unskilled  and  untrained  judgments.  But 
an  artist  of  his  rank  and  quality  has  no  need  to 
cry  out  against  the  rash  intrusion  of  critical  strag- 
glers from  the  demesne  of  any  other  art.  He  can 
afford  the  risk  of  such  sympathies,  for  his  own  is 
rich  in  the  qualities  of  those  others  also,  in  musi- 
cal and  poetic  excellence  not  less  positive  than  the 
pictorial;  and  as  artist  he  stands  high  enough  to 
be  above  all  chance  of  the  imputation  cast  on  some 
that  they  seek  comfort  in  the  ignorant  admiration 


Simeon  Solomon  67 

and  reciprocal  sympathy  of  men  who  cultivate 
some  alien  line  of  art,  for  conscious  incompetence 
and  failure  in  their  own;  fain  to  find  shelter  for 
bad  painting  under  the  plea  of  poetic  feeling,  or 
excuse  for  bad  verse  under  the  plea  of  good 
thought  or  sentiment.  By  right  of  his  innate 
energies  and  actual  performances,  he  claims  kin- 
ship and  alliance  with  the  foremost  in  all  fields  of 
art,  while  holding  in  his  own  a  special  and  memor- 
able place.  Withdrawn  from  the  roll  of  artists, 
his  name  would  leave  a  void  impossible  to  fill  up 
by  any  worthiest  or  ablest  substitute;  by  any  name 
of  master  in  the  past  or  disciple  in  the  present  or 
future.  The  one  high  test  requisite  for  all  gen- 
uine and  durable  honour  is  beyond  all  question 
his;  he  is  himself  alone,  and  one  Whose  place  no 
man  can  take.  They  only,  but  they  assuredly,  of 
whom  this  can  be  said,  may  trust  in  their  life  to 
come.  Time  wears  out  the  names  of  the  best  imi- 
tators and  followers;  but  he  whose  place  is  his 
own,  and  that  place  high  among  his  fellows,  may 
be  content  to  leave  his  life's  work  with  all  confi- 
dence to  time. 


MR.  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  "MODERN 

LOVE" 

1862 


W\ 


MR.  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  "MODERN 

LOVE" 

(Letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  Spectator.) 

SIR, — I  cannot  resist  asking  the  favour  of 
admission     for    my     protest    against    the 
article  on  Mr.   Meredith's  last  volume  of 
poems    in    the    Spectator    of  May  24th.1 
That  I  personally  have  for  the  writings,  whether 
verse  or  prose,  of  Mr.  Meredith  a  most  sincere 
and  deep  admiration  is  no  doubt  a  matter  of  in- 
finitely small  moment.     I  wish  only,  in  default  of 
a  better,  to  appeal  seriously  on  general  grounds 
against   this   sort   of   criticism  as   applied   to   one 
of    the    leaders    of    English    literature.     To    any 
fair  attack   Mr.   Meredith's   books   of   course   lie 
as  much  open  as  another  man's;  indeed,  standing 
where  he  does,  the  very  eminence  of  his  post  makes 
him  perhaps  more  liable  than  a  man  of  less  well- 
earned  fame  to  the  periodical  slings  and  arrows  of 
publicity.     Against  such  criticism  no  one  would 
have  a  right  to  appeal,  whether  for  his  own  work 
or  for  another's.     But  the  writer  of  the  article  in 
question  blinks  at  starting  the  fact  that  he  is  deal- 
ing with  no  unfledged  pretender.     Any  work  of 
a  man  who  has  won  his  spurs,  and  fought  his  way 
to  a  foremost  place  among  the  men  of  his  time, 
must  claim  at  least  a  grave  consideration  and  re- 

i  1862.— Ed. 

71 


72  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

spect.  It  would  hardly  be  less  absurd,  in  remark- 
ing on  a  poem  by  Mr.  Meredith,  to  omit  all  refer- 
ence to  his  previous  work,  and  treat  the  present 
book  as  if  its  author  had  never  tried  his  hand  at 
such  writing  before,  than  to  criticise  the  Legende 
des  Siecles,  or  (coming  to  a  nearer  instance)  the 
Idylls  of  the  King,  without  taking  into  account 
the  relative  position  of  the  great  English  or  the 
greater  French  poet.  On  such  a  tone  of  criticism 
as  this  any  one  may  chance  to  see  or  hear  of  it  has 
a  right  to  comment. 

But  even  if  the  case  were  different,  and  the 
author  were  now  at  his  starting-point,  such  a  re- 
view of  such  a  book  is  surely  out  of  date.  Praise 
or  blame  should  be  thoughtful,  serious,  careful, 
when  applied  to  a  work  of  such  subtle  strength, 
such  depth  of  delicate  power,  such  passionate  and 
various  beauty,  as  the  leading  poem  of  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's volume:  in  some  points,  as  it  seems  to  me 
(and  in  this  opinion  I  know  that  I  have  weightier 
judgments  than  my  own  to  back  me)  a  poem 
above  the  aim  and  beyond  the  reach  of  any  but 
its  author.  Mr.  Meredith  is  one  of  the  three  or 
four  poets  now  alive  whose  work,  perfect  or  im- 
perfect, is  always  as  noble  in  design  as  it  is  often 
faultless  in  result.  The  present  critic  falls  foul 
of  him  for  dealing  with  "a  deep  and  painful  sub- 
ject on  which  he  has  no  conviction  to  express." 
There  are  pulpits  enough  for  all  preachers  in 
prose;  the  business  of  verse-writing  is  hardly  to 
express  convictions;  and  if  some  poetry,  not  with- 
out merit  of  its  kind,  has  at  times  dealt  in  dog- 


George  Meredith's  "Modern  Love"        73 

matic  morality,  it  is  all  the  worse  and  all  the 
weaker  for  that.  As  to  subject,  it  is  too  much 
to  expect  that  all  schools  of  poetry  are  to  be  for 
ever  subordinate  to  the  one  just  now  so  much  in 
request  with  us,  whose  scope  of  sight  is  bounded 
by  the  nursery  walls;  that  all  Muses  are  to  bow 
down  before  her  who  babbles,  with  lips  yet  warm 
from  their  pristine  pap,  after  the  dangling  de- 
lights of  a  child's  coral;  and  jingles  with  flaccid 
fingers  one  knows  not  whether  a  jester's  or  a 
baby's  bells.  We  have  not  too  many  writers 
capable  of  duly  handling  a  subject  worth  the  seri- 
ous interest  of  men.  As  to  execution,  take  almost 
any  sonnet  at  random  out  of  the  series,  and  let  any 
man  qualified  to  judge  for  himself  of  metre,  choice 
of  expression,  and  splendid  language,  decide  on 
its  claims.  And,  after  all,  the  test  will  be  unfair, 
except  as  regards  metrical  or  pictorial  merit; 
every  section  of  this  great  progressive  poem  being 
connected  with  the  other  by  links  of  the  finest  and 
most  studied  workmanship.  Take,  for  example, 
that  noble  sonnet,  beginning 

"We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  skies," 

a  more  perfect  piece  of  writing  no  man  alive  has 
ever  turned  out;  witness  these  three  lines,  the 
grandest  perhaps  of  the  book: 

"And  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth, 
Our  spirit  grew  as  we  walked  side  by  side ; 
The  hour  became  her  husband,  and  my  bride;" 

but  in  transcription  it  must  lose  the  colour  and 


74  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

effect  given  it  by  its  place  in  the  series;  the  grave 
and  tender  beauty,  which  makes  it  at  once  a  bridge 
and  a  resting-place  between  the  admirable  poems 
of  passion  it  falls  among.  As  specimens  of  pure 
power,  and  depth  of  imagination  at  once  intricate 
and  vigorous,  take  the  two  sonnets  on  a  false 
passing  reunion  of  wife  and  husband;  the  sonnet 
on  the  rose;  that  other  beginning: 

"I   am  not  of  those  miserable  males 
Who  sniff  at  vice,  and  daring  not  to  snap, 
Do  therefore  hope  for  heaven." 

And,  again,  that  earlier  one: 

"All  other  joys  of  life  he  strove  to  warm." 

Of  the  shorter  poems  which  give  character  to 
the  book  I  have  not  space  to  speak  here;  and  as 
the  critic  has  omitted  noticing  the  most  valuable 
and  important  (such  as  the  "Beggar's  Soliloquy," 
and  the  "Old  Chartist,"  equal  to  Beranger  for 
completeness  of  effect  and  exquisite  justice  of 
style,  but  noticeable  for  a  thorough  dramatic  in- 
sight, which  Beranger  missed  through  his  personal 
passions  and  partialities),  there  is  no  present  need 
to  go  into  the  matter.  I  ask  you  to  admit  this 
protest  simply  out  of  justice  to  the  book  in  hand, 
believing  as  I  do  that  it  expresses  the  deliberate 
unbiassed  opinion  of  a  sufficient  number  of  readers 
to  warrant  the  insertion  of  it,  and  leaving  to  your 
consideration  rather  their  claims  to  a  fair  hearing 
than  those  of  the  book's  author  to  a  revised  judg- 


George  Meredith's  "Modem  Love"        75 

merit.  A  poet  of  Mr.  Meredith's  rank  can  no 
more  be  profited  by  the  advocacy  of  his  admirers 
than  injured  by  the  rash  or  partial  attack  of  his 

critics. 

A.  C.  Swinburne. 


VI 
CHARLES  DICKENS 

1902 


CHARLES  DICKENS 

IT  is  only  when  such  names  as  Shakespeare's 
or  Hugo's  rise  and  remain  as  the  supreme 
witnesses  of  what  was  highest  in  any  particu- 
lar country  at  any  particular  time  that  there 
can  be  any  question  among  any  but  irrational  and 
impudent  men  as  to  the  supremacy  of  their  great- 
est. England,  under  the  reign  of  Dickens,  had 
other  great  names  to  boast  of  which  may  well  be 
allowed  to  challenge  the  sovereignty  of  his  genius. 
But  as  there  certainly  was  no  Shakespeare  and  no 
Hugo  to  rival  and  eclipse  his  glory,  he  will  prob- 
ably and  naturally  always  be  accepted  and  ac- 
claimed as  the  greatest  Englishman  of  his  gener- 
ation. His  first  works  or  attempts  at  work  gave 
little  more  promise  of  such  a  future  than  if  he  had 
been  a  Coleridge  or  a  Shelley.  No  one  could 
have  foreseen  what  all  may  now  foresee  in  the 
"Sketches  by  Boz" — not  only  a  quick  and  keen- 
eyed  observer,  "a  chiel  amang  us  takin'  notes"  more 
notable  than  Captain  Grose's,  but  a  great  creative 
genius.  Nor  could  anyone  have  foreseen  it  in  the 
early  chapters  of  "Pickwick" — which,  at  their  best, 
do  better  the  sort  of  thing  which  had  been  done 
fairly  well  before.  Sam  Weller  and  Charles 
Dickens  came  to  life  together,  immortal  and  twin- 
born.  In  "Oliver  Twist"  the  quality  of  a  great 
comic  and  tragic  poet  or  dramatist  in  prose  fiction 


79 


80  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

was  for  the  first  time  combined  with  the  already 
famous  qualities  of  a  great  humourist  and  a  born 
master  in  the  arts  of  narrative  and  dialogue. 

Like  the  early  works  of  all  other  great  writers 
whose  critical  contemporaries  have  failed  to  elude 
the  kindly  chance  of  beneficent  oblivion,  the  early 
works  of  Dickens  have  been  made  use  of  to  depre- 
ciate his  later,  with  the  same  enlightened  and  im- 
partial candour  which  on  the  appearance  of 
"Othello"  must  doubtless  have  deplored  the  steady 
though  gradual  decline  of  its  author's  genius  from 
the  unfulfilled  promise  of  excellence  held  forth  by 
"Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona."  There  may  pos- 
sibly be  some  faint  and  flickering  shadow  of  excuse 
for  the  dullards,  if  unmalignant,  who  prefer 
"Nicholas  Nickleby"  to  the  riper  and  sounder 
fruits  of  the  same  splendid  and  inexhaustible 
genius.  Admirable  as  it  is,  full  of  life  and  sap 
and  savour,  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  youth 
are  so  singularly  mingled  in  the  story  and  the 
style  that  readers  who  knew  nothing  of  its  date 
might  naturally  have  assumed  that  it  must  have 
been  the  writer's  first  attempt  at  fiction.  There 
is  perhaps  no  question  which  would  more  thor- 
oughly test  the  scholarship  of  the  student  than 
this: — What  do  you  know  of  Jane  Dibabs  and 
Horatio  Peltiogrus?  At  fourscore  and  ten  it 
might  be  thought  "too  late  a  week"  for  a  reader 
to  revel  with  insuppressible  delight  in  a  first  read- 
ing of  the  chapters  which  enrol  all  worthy  readers 
in  the  company  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies;  but  I 
can  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that  this  effect  was 


Charles  Dickens  81 

produced  on  a  reader  of  that  age  who  had  earned 
honour  and  respect  in  public  life,  affection  and 
veneration  in  private.  It  is  not,  on  the  other  hand, 
less  curious  and  significant  that  Sydney  Smith, 
who  had  held  out  against  Sam  Weller,  should  have 
been  conquered  by  Miss  Squeers;  that  her  letter, 
which  of  all  Dickens's  really  good  things  is  per- 
haps the  most  obviously  imitative  and  suggestive 
of  its  model,  should  have  converted  so  great  an 
elder  humourist  to  appreciation  of  a  greater  than 
himself;  that  the  echo  of  familiar  fun,  an  echo  from 
the  grave  of  Smollett,  should  have  done  what  finer 
and  more  original  strokes  of  comic  genius  had  un- 
accountably failed  to  do.  But  in  all  criticism  of 
such  work  the  merely  personal  element  of  the 
critic,  the  natural  atmosphere  in  which  his  mind 
or  his  insight  works,  and  uses  its  faculties  of  ap- 
preciation, is  really  the  first  and  last  thing  to  be 
taken  into  account. 

No  mortal  man  or  woman,  no  human  boy  or  girl, 
can  resist  the  fascination  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quilp, 
of  Mr.  and  Miss  Brass,  of  Mr.  Swiveller  and  his 
Marchioness;  but  even  the  charm  of  Mrs.  Jarley 
and  her  surroundings,  the  magic  which  enthrals 
us  in  the  presence  of  a  Codlin  and  a  Short,  cannot 
mesmerise  or  hypnotise  us  into  belief  that  the  story 
of  "The  Old  Curiosity  Shop"  is  in  any  way  a  good 
story.  But  it  is  the  first  book  in  which  the  back- 
ground or  setting  is  often  as  impressive  as  the 
figures  which  can  hardly  be  detached  from  it  in 
our  remembered  impression  of  the  whole  design. 
From   Quilp's   Wharf  to  Plashwater  Weir  Mill 


82  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Lock,  the  river  belongs  to  Dickens  by  right  of 
conquest  or  creation.  The  part  it  plays  in  more 
than  a  few  of  his  books  is  indivisible  from  the  parts 
played  in  them  by  human  actors  beside  it  or  upon 
it.  Of  such  actors  in  this  book,  the  most  famous 
as  an  example  of  her  creator's  power  as  a  master 
of  pathetic  tragedy  would  thoroughly  deserve  her 
fame  if  she  were  but  a  thought  more  human  and 
more  credible.  "The  child"  has  never  a  touch  of 
childhood  about  her;  she  is  an  impeccable  and  in- 
variable portent  of  devotion,  without  a  moment's 
lapse  into  the  humanity  of  frailty  in  temper  or  in 
conduct.  Dickens  might  as  well  have  fitted  her 
with  a  pair  of  wings  at  once.  A  woman  might 
possibly  be  as  patient,  as  resourceful,  as  indefati- 
gable in  well-doing  and  as  faultless  in  perception 
of  the  right  thing  to  do;  it  would  be  difficult  to 
make  her  deeply  interesting,  but  she  might  be 
made  more  or  less  of  an  actual  creature.  But  a 
child  whom  nothing  can  ever  irritate,  whom 
nothing  can  ever  baffle,  whom  nothing  can  ever 
misguide,  whom  nothing  can  ever  delude,  and 
whom  nothing  can  ever  dismay,  is  a  monster  as 
inhuman  as  a  baby  with  two  heads. 

Outside  the  class  which  excludes  all  but  the 
highest  masterpieces  of  poetry  it  is  difficult  to  find 
or  to  imagine  a  faultless  work  of  creation — in  other 
words,  a  faultless  work  of  fiction;  but  the  story  of 
"Barnaby  Rudge"  can  hardly,  in  common  justice, 
be  said  to  fall  short  of  this  crowning  praise.  And 
in  this  book,  even  if  not  in  any  of  its  precursors, 
an  appreciative  reader  must  recognise  a  quality 


Charles  Dickens  83 

of  humour  which  will  remind  him  of  Shakespeare, 
and  perhaps  of  Aristophanes.  The  impetuous  and 
irrepressible  volubility  of  Miss  Miggs,  when  once 
her  eloquence  breaks  loose  and  finds  vent  like  rag- 
ing water  or' fire,  is  powerful  enough  to  overbear 
for  the  moment  any  slight  objection  which  a 
severe  morality  might  suggest  with  respect  to  the 
rectitude  and  propriety  of  her  conduct.  It  is  im- 
possible to  be  rigid  in  our  judgment  of  "a  toiling, 
moiling,  constant-working,  always-being-found- 
fault-with,  never-giving-satisfactions,  nor-having- 
no-time-to-clean-oneself,  potter's  wessel,"  whose 
"only  becoming  occupation  is  to  help  young  flaunt- 
ing pagins  to  brush  and  comb  and  titiwate  their- 
selves  into  whitening  and  suppulchres,  and  leave 
the  young  men  to  think  that  there  an't  a 
bit  of  padding  in  it  nor  no  pinching-ins,  nor  fill- 
ings-out nor  pomatums  nor  deceits  nor  earthly 
wanities."  To  have  made  malignity  as  delightful 
for  an  instant  as  simplicity,  and  Miss  Miggs  as 
enchanting  as  Mrs.  Quickly  or  Mrs.  Gamp,  is  an 
unsurpassable  triumph  of  dramatic  humour. 

But  the  advance  in  tragic  power  is  even  more 
notable  and  memorable  than  this.  The  pathos, 
indeed,  is  too  cruel;  the  tortures  of  the  idiot's 
mother  and  the  murderer's  wife  are  so  fearful  that 
interest  and  sympathy  are  wellnigh  superseded  or 
overbalanced  by  a  sense  of  horror  rather  than  of 
pity;  magnificent  as  is  the  power  of  dramatic  in- 
vention which  animates  every  scene  in  every  stage 
of  her  martyrdom.  Dennis  is  the  first  of  those 
consummate  and  wonderful  ruffians,  with  two  vile 


84  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

faces  under  one  frowsy  hood,  whose  captain  or 
commander-in-chief  is  Rogue  Riderhood;  more 
fearful  by  far,  though  not  (one  would  hope)  more 
natural,  than  Henriet  Cousin,  who  could  hardly 
breathe  when  fastening  the  rope  round  Esmer- 
alda's neck,  "tant  la  chose  l'apitoyait" ;  a  divine 
touch  of  surviving  humanity  which  would  have 
been  impossible  to  the  more  horrible  hangman 
whose  mortal  agony  in  immediate  prospect  of  the 
imminent  gallows  is  as  terribly  memorable  as  any- 
thing in  the  tragedy  of  fiction  or  the  poetry  of 
prose.  His  fellow  hangbird  is  a  figure  no  less 
admirable  throughout  all  his  stormy  and  fiery 
career  till  the  last  moment ;  and  then  he  drops  into 
poetry.  Nor  is  it  poetry  above  the  reach  of  Silas 
Wegg  which  "invokes  the  curse  of  all  its  victims 
on  that  black  tree,  of  which  he  is  the  ripened  fruit." 
The  writer's  impulse  was  noble;  but  its  expression 
or  its  effusion  is  such  as  indifference  may  deride 
and  sympathy  must  deplore.  Twice  only  did  the 
greatest  English  writer  of  his  day  make  use  of 
history  as  a  background  or  a  stage  for  fiction;  the 
use  made  of  it  in  "Barnaby  Rudge"  is  even  more 
admirable  in  the  lifelike  tragedy  and  the  terrible 
comedy  of  its  presentation  than  the  use  made  of 
it  in  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities." 

Dickens  was  doubtless  right  in  his  preference  of 
"David  Copperfield"  to  all  his  other  masterpieces; 
it  is  only  among  dunces  that  it  is  held  improbable 
or  impossible  for  a  great  writer  to  judge  aright  of 
his  own  work  at  its  best,  to  select  and  to  prefer  the 
finest  and  the  fullest  example  of  his  active  genius ; 


Charles  Dickens  85 

but,  when  all  deductions  have  been  made  from  the 
acknowledgement  due  to  the  counter-claim  of 
"Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  the  fact  remains  that  in  that 
unequal  and  irregular  masterpiece  his  comic  and 
his  tragic  genius  rose  now  and  then  to  the  very- 
highest  pitch  of  all.  No  son  of  Adam  and  no 
daughter  of  Eve  on  this  God's  earth,  as  his  occa- 
sional friend  Mr.  Carlyle  might  have  expressed  it, 
could  have  imagined  it  possible — for  anything  in 
later  comedy  to  rival  the  unspeakable  perfection 
of  Mrs.  Quickly's  eloquence  at  its  best;  at  such 
moments  as  when  her  claim  to  be  acknowledged  as 
Lady  Falstaff  was  reinforced,  if  not  by  the  spirit- 
ual authority  of  Master  Dumb,  by  the  correlative 
evidence  of  Mrs.  Keech;  but  no  reader  above  the 
level  of  intelligence  which  prefers  to  Shakespeare 
the  Parisian  Ibsen  and  the  Norwegian  Sardou  can 
dispute  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Gamp  has  once  and 
again  risen  even  to  that  unimaginable  supremacy 
of  triumph. 

At  the  first  interview  vouchsafed  to  us  with  the 
adorable  Sairey,  we  feel  that  no  words  can  express 
our  sense  of  the  divinely  altruistic  and  devoted 
nature  which  finds  utterance  in  the  sweetly  and 
sublimely  simple  words — "If  I  could  afford  to  lay 
all  my  feller  creeturs  out  for  nothink,  I  would 
gladly  do  it:  sich  is  the  love  I  bear  'em."  We 
think  of  little  Tommy  Harris,  and  the  little  red 
worsted  shoe  gurgling  in  his  throat;  of  the  previ- 
ous occasion  when  his  father  sought  shelter  and 
silence  in  an  empty  dog-kennel;  of  that  father's 
immortally  infamous  reflection  on  the  advent  of 


86  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

his  ninth;  of  religious  feelings,  of  life,  and  the  end 
of  all  things;  of  Mr.  Gamp,  his  wooden  leg,  and 
their  precious  boy;  of  her  calculations  and  her  ex- 
periences with  reference  to  birth  and  death;  of 
her  views  as  to  the  expediency  of  travel  by  steam, 
which  anticipated  Ruskin's  and  those  of  later  dis- 
senters from  the  gospel  of  hurry  and  the  religion 
of  mechanism;  of  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Harris's 
pocket;  of  the  incredible  incredulity  of  the  infidel 
Mrs.  Prig;  we  think  of  all  this,  and  of  more  than 
all  this,  and  acknowledge  with  infinite  thanksgiv- 
ing of  inexhaustible  laughter  and  of  rapturous 
admiration  the  very  greatest  comic  poet  or  creator 
that  ever  lived  to  make  the  life  of  other  men  more 
bright  and  more  glad  and  more  perfect  than  ever, 
without  his  beneficent  influence,  it  possibly  or 
imaginably  could  have  been. 

The  advance  in  power  of  tragic  invention,  the 
increased  strength  in  grasp  of  character  and  grip 
of  situation,  which  distinguishes  Chuzzlewit  from 
Nickleby,  may  be  tested  by  comparison  of  the 
leading  villains.  Ralph  Nickleby  might  almost 
have  walked  straight  off  the  boards  on  which  the 
dramatic  genius  of  his  nephew  was  employed  to 
bring  into  action  two  tubs  and  a  pump:  Jonas 
Chuzzlewit  has  his  place  of  eminence  for  ever 
among  the  most  memorable  types  of  living  and 
breathing  wickedness  that  ever  were  stamped  and 
branded  with  immortality  by  the  indignant  genius 
of  a  great  and  unrelenting  master.  Neither 
Vautrin  nor  Thenardier  has  more  of  evil  and  of 
deathless  life  in  him. 


Charles  Dickens  37 

It  is  not  only  by  his  masterpieces,  it  is  also  by 
his  inferior  works  or  even  by  his  comparative  fail- 
ures that  the  greatness  of  a  great  writer  may  be 
reasonably  judged  and  tested.  We  can  measure 
in  some  degree  the  genius  of  Thackeray  by  the 
fact  that  "Pendennis,"  with  all  its  marvellous 
wealth  of  character  and  humour  and  living  truth, 
has  never  been  and  never  will  be  rated  among 
his  very  greatest  works.  "Dombey  and  Son" 
cannot  be  held  nearly  so  much  of  a  success  as 
"Pendennis."  I  have  known  a  man  of  the  very 
highest  genius  and  the  most  fervent  enthusiasm 
for  that  of  Dickens  who  never  could  get  through 
it.  There  is  nothing  of  a  story,  and  all  that 
nothing  (to  borrow  a  phrase  from  Martial)  is  bad. 
The  Roman  starveling  had  nothing  to  lose,  and 
lost  it  all:  the  story  of  Dombey  has  no  plot,  and 
that  a  very  stupid  one.  The  struttingly  offensive 
father  and  his  gushingly  submissive  daughter  are 
failures  of  the  first  magnitude.  Little  Paul  is  a 
more  credible  child  than  Little  Nell;  he  sometimes 
forgets  that  he  is  foredoomed  by  a  more  than 
Pauline  or  Calvinistic  law  of  predestination  to 
die  in  the  odour  of  sentiment,  and  says  or  thinks 
or  does  something  really  and  quaintly  childlike. 
But  we  get,  to  say  the  least,  a  good  deal  of  him; 
and  how  much  too  little  do  we  get  of  Jack  Bunsby ! 
Not  so  very  much  more  than  of  old  Bill  Barley; 
and  yet  those  two  ancient  mariners  are  berthed 
for  ever  in  the  inmost  shrine  of  our  affections. 
Another  patch  of  the  very  brightest  purple  sewn 
into    the    sometimes    rather   threadbare    stuff    or 


88  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

groundwork  of  the  story  is  the  scene  in  which  the 
dissolution  of  a  ruined  household  is  so  tragicomi- 
cally  set  before  us  in  the  breaking  up  of  the 
servants'  hall.  And  when  we  think  upon  the 
cherished  names  of  Toots  and  Nipper,  Gills  and 
Cuttle,  Rob  the  Grinder  and  good  Mrs.  Brown, 
we  are  tempted  to  throw  conscience  to  the  winds, 
and  affirm  that  the  book  is  a  good  book. 

But  even  if  we  admit  that  here  was  an  interlude 
of  comparative  failure,  we  cannot  but  feel  moved 
to  acclaim  with  all  the  more  ardent  gratitude  the 
appearance  of  the  next  and  perhaps  the  greatest 
gift  bestowed  upon  us  by  this  magnificent  and 
immortal  benefactor.  "David  Copperfield,"  from 
the  first  chapter  to  the  last,  is  unmistakable  by  any 
eye  above  the  level  and  beyond  the  insight  of  a 
beetle's  as  one  of  the  masterpieces  to  which  time 
can  only  add  a  new  charm  and  an  unimaginable 
value.  The  narrative  is  as  coherent  and  harmo- 
nious as  that  of  "Tom  Jones";  and  to  say  this  is 
to  try  it  by  the  very  highest  and  apparently  the 
most  unattainable  standard.  But  I  must  venture 
to  reaffirm  my  conviction  that  even  the  glorious 
masterpiece  of  Fielding's  radiant  and  beneficent 
genius,  if  in  some  points  superior,  is  by  no  means 
superior  in  all.  Tom  is  a  far  completer  and  more 
living  type  of  gallant  boyhood  and  generous  young 
manhood  than  David;  but  even  the  lustre  of  Part- 
ridge is  pallid  and  lunar  beside  the  noontide  glory 
of  Micawber.  Blifil  is  a  more  poisonously  plau- 
sible villain  than  Uriah:  Sophia  Western  remains 
unequalled  except  by  her  sister  heroine  Amelia 


Charles  Dickens  89 

as  a  perfectly  credible  and  adorable  type  of  young 
English  womanhood,  naturally  "like  one  of 
Shakespeare's  women,"  socially  as  fine  and  true  a 
lady  as  Congreve's  Millamant  and  Angelica.  But 
even  so  large-minded  and  liberal  a  genius  as 
Fielding's  could  never  have  conceived  any  figure 
like  Miss  Trotwood's,  any  group  like  that  of  the 
Peggottys.  As  easily  could  it  have  imagined  and 
realised  the  magnificent  setting  of  the  story,  with 
its  homely  foreground  of  street  or  wayside  and  its 
background  of  tragic  sea. 

The  perfect  excellence  of  this  masterpiece  has 
perhaps  done  some  undeserved  injury  to  the  less 
impeccable  works  of  genius  which  immediately  suc- 
ceeded it.  But  in  "Bleak  House"  the  daring  ex- 
periment of  combination  or  alternation  which 
divides  a  story  between  narrative  in  the  third  per- 
son and  narrative  in  the  first  is  justified  and 
vindicated  by  its  singular  and  fascinating  success. 
"Esther's  narrative"  is  as  good  as  her  creator's; 
and  no  enthusiasm  of  praise  could  overrate  the 
excellence  of  them  both.  For  wealth  and  variety 
of  character  none  of  the  master's  works  can  be  said 
to  surpass  and  few  can  be  said  to  equal  it.  When 
all  necessary  allowance  has  been  made  for  occa- 
sional unlikeliness  in  detail  or  questionable  methods 
of  exposition,  the  sustained  interest  and  the  terrible 
pathos  of  Lady  Dedlock's  tragedy  will  remain 
unaffected  and  unimpaired.  Any  reader  can 
object  that  a  lady  visiting  a  slum  in  the  disguise 
of  a  servant  would  not  have  kept  jewelled  rings 
on  her  fingers  for  the  inspection  of  a  crossing- 


90  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

sweeper,  or  that  a  less  decorous  and  plausible  way 
of  acquainting  her  with  the  fact  that  a  scandalous 
episode  in  her  early  life  was  no  longer  a  secret  for 
the  family  lawyer  could  hardly  have  been  imag- 
ined than  the  public  narrative  of  her  story  in  her 
own  drawing-room  by  way  of  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment for  her  husband  and  their  guests.  To 
these  objections,  which  any  Helot  of  culture 
whose  brain  may  have  been  affected  by  habitual 
indulgence  in  the  academic  delirium  of  self-com- 
placent superiority  may  advance  or  may  suggest 
with  the  most  exquisite  infinity  of  impertinence,  it 
may  be  impossible  to  retort  an  equally  obvious  and 
inconsiderable  objection. 

But  to  a  far  more  serious  charge,  which  even  now 
appears  to  survive  the  confutation  of  all  serious 
evidence,  it  is  incomprehensible  and  inexplicable 
that  Dickens  should  have  returned  no  better  an  an- 
swer than  he  did.  Harold  Skimpole  was  said  to  be 
Leigh  Hunt;  a  rascal  after  the  order  of  Waine- 
wright,  without  the  poisoner's  comparatively  and 
diabolically  admirable  audacity  of  frank  and  fiend- 
ish self-esteem,  was  assumed  to  be  meant  for  a  por- 
trait or  a  caricature  of  an  honest  man  and  a  man  of 
unquestionable  genius.  To  this  most  serious  and 
most  disgraceful  charge,  Dickens  merely  replied 
that  he  never  anticipated  the  identification  of  the 
rascal  Skimpole  with  the  fascinating  Harold — the 
attribution  of  imaginary  villainy  to  the  original 
model  who  suggested  or  supplied  a  likeness  for  the 
externally  amiable  and  ineffectually  accomplished 
lounger  and  shuffler  through  life.     The  simpler  and 


Charles  Dickens  91 

final  reply  should  have  been  that  indolence  was  the 
essential  quality  of  the  character  and  conduct  and 
philosophy  of  Skimpole — "a  perfectly  idle  man:  a 
mere  amateur,"  as  he  describes  himself  to  the  sym- 
pathetic and  approving  Sir  Leicester;  that  Leigh 
Hunt  was  one  of  the  hardest  and  steadiest  workers 
on  record,  throughout  a  long  and  chequered  life,  at 
the  toilsome  trade  of  letters;  and  therefore  that  to 
represent  him  as  a  heartless  and  shameless  idler 
would  have  been  about  as  rational  an  enterprise,  as 
lifelike  a  design  after  the  life,  as  it  would  have 
been  to  represent  Shelley  as  a  gluttonous  and  cant- 
ing hypocrite  or  Byron  as  a  loyal  and  unselfish 
friend.  And  no  one  as  yet,  I  believe,  has  pre- 
tended to  recognise  in  Mr.  Jarndyce  a  study  from 
Byron,  in  Mr.  Chadband  a  libel  on  Shelley. 

Of  the  two  shorter  novels  which  would  suffice  to 
preserve  for  ever  the  fame  of  Dickens,  some  readers 
will  as  probably  always  prefer  "Hard  Times"  as 
others  will  prefer  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities."  The 
later  of  these  is  doubtless  the  most  ingeniously  and 
dramatically  invented  and  constructed  of  all  the 
master's  works ;  the  earlier  seems  to  me  the  greater 
in  moral  and  pathetic  and  humorous  effect.  The 
martyr  workman,  beautiful  as  is  the  study  of  his 
character  and  terrible  as  is  the  record  of  his  tragedy, 
is  almost  too  spotless  a  sufferer  and  a  saint;  the 
lifelong  lapidation  of  this  unluckier  Stephen  is 
somewhat  too  consistent  and  insistent  and  persist- 
ent for  any  record  but  that  of  a  martyrology;  but 
the  obdurate  and  histrionic  affectation  which  ani- 
mates the  brutality  and  stimulates  the  selfishness  of 


92  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Mr.  Boun derby  is  only  too  lamentably  truer  and 
nearer  to  the  unlovely  side  of  life.  Mr.  Ruskin — 
a  name  never  to  be  mentioned  without  reverence — 
thought  otherwise;  but  in  knowledge  and  insight 
into  character  and  ethics  that  nobly  minded  man 
of  genius  was  no  more  comparable  to  Dickens  than 
in  sanity  of  ardour  and  rationality  of  aspiration 
for  progressive  and  practical  reform. 

As  a  social  satirist  Dickens  is  usually  considered 
to  have  shown  himself  at  his  weakest;  the  curious 
and  seemingly  incorrigible  ignorance  which  im- 
agined that  the  proper  title  of  Sir  John  Smith's 
wife  was  Lady  John  Smith,  and  that  the  same 
noble  peer  could  be  known  to  his  friends  and  para- 
sites alternately  as  Lord  Jones  and  Lord  James 
Jones,  may  naturally  make  us  regret  the  absence 
from  their  society  of  our  old  Parisian  friend  Sir 
Brown,  Esquire;  but  though  such  singular  desig- 
nations as  these  were  never  rectified  or  removed 
from  the  text  of  "Nicholas  Nickleby,"  and  though 
a  Lady  Kew  was  as  far  outside  the  range  of  his 
genius  as  a  Madame  MarnefFe,  his  satire  of  social 
pretension  and  pretence  was  by  no  means  always 
"a  swordstroke  in  the  water"  or  a  flourish  in  the 
air.  Mrs.  Sparsit  is  as  typical  and  immortal  as 
any  figure  of  Moliere's;  and  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Sparsit  was  a  Powler  is  one  which  can  never  be 
forgotten. 

There  is  no  surer  way  of  testing  the  greatness 
of  a  really  great  writer  than  by  consideration  of 
his  work  at  its  weakest,  and  comparison  of  that 
comparative  weakness  with  the  strength  of  lesser 


Charles  Dickens  93 

men  at  their  strongest  and  their  best.  The  ro- 
mantic and  fanciful  comedy  of  "Love's  Labour's 
Lost"  is  hardly  a  perceptible  jewel  in  the  sover- 
eign crown  of  Shakespeare;  but  a  single  passage 
in  a  single  scene  of  it — the  last  of  the  fourth  act 
— is  more  than  sufficient  to  outweigh,  to  outshine, 
to  eclipse  and  efface  forever  the  dramatic  lucubra- 
tions and  prescriptions  of  Dr.  Ibsen — Fracastoro 
of  the  drama — and  his  volubly  grateful  patients. 
Among  the  mature  works  of  Dickens  and  of 
Thackeray,  I  suppose  most  readers  would  agree 
in  the  opinion  that  the  least  satisfactory,  if  con- 
sidered as  representative  of  the  author's  incom- 
parable powers,  are  "Little  Dorrit"  and  "The  Vir- 
ginians"; yet  no  one  above  the  intellectual  level 
of  an  Ibsenite  or  a  Zolaist  will  doubt  or  will 
deny  that  there  is  enough  merit  in  either  of  these 
books  for  the  stable  foundation  of  an  enduring 
fame. 

The  conception  of  "Little  Dorrit"  was  far  hap- 
pier and  more  promising  than  that  of  "Dombey 
and  Son";  which  indeed  is  not  much  to  say  for  it. 
Mr.  Dombey  is  a  doll ;  Mr.  Dorrit  is  an  everlasting 
figure  of  comedy  in  its  most  tragic  aspect  and 
tragedy  in  its  most  comic  phase.  Little  Dorrit 
herself  might  be  less  untruly  than  unkindly  de- 
scribed as  Little  Nell  grown  big,  or  in  Milton's 
phrase,  "writ  large."  But  on  that  very  account 
she  is  a  more  credible  and  therefore  a  more  really 
and  rationally  pathetic  figure.  The  incompar- 
able incoherence  of  the  parts  which  pretend  in 
vain  to  compose  the  incomposite  story  may  be 


94  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

gauged  by  the  collapse  of  some  of  them  and  the 
vehement  hurry  of  cramped  and  halting  invention 
which  huddles  up  the  close  of  it  without  an  at- 
tempt at  the  rational  and  natural  evolution  of 
others.  It  is  like  a  child's  dissected  map  with 
some  of  the  counties  or  kingdoms  missing.  Much, 
though  certainly  not  all,  of  the  humour  is  of  the 
poorest  kind  possible  to  Dickens;  and  the  reitera- 
ted repetition  of  comic  catchwords  and  tragic  illus- 
trations of  character  is  such  as  to  affect  the  nerves 
no  less  than  the  intelligence  of  the  reader  with  ir- 
repressible irritation.  But  this,  if  he  be  wise,  will 
be  got  over  and  kept  under  by  his  sense  of  admi- 
ration and  of  gratitude  for  the  unsurpassable  ex- 
cellence of  the  finest  passages  and  chapters.  The 
day  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Merdle  is  one  of  the 
most  memorable  dates  in  all  the  record  of  creative 
history — or,  to  use  one  word  in  place  of  two,  in 
all  the  record  of  fiction.  The  fusion  of  humour 
and  horror  in  the  marvellous  chapter  which  de- 
scribes it  is  comparable  only  with  the  kindred 
work  of  such  creators  as  the  authors  of  "Les 
Miserables"  and  "King  Lear."  And  nothing  in 
the  work  of  Balzac  is  newer  and  truer  and  more 
terrible  than  the  relentless  yet  not  unmerciful  evo- 
lution of  the  central  figure  in  the  story.  The  Fa- 
ther of  the  Marshalsea  is  so  pitiably  worthy  of  pity 
as  well  as  of  scorn  that  it  would  have  seemed  im- 
possible to  heighten  or  to  deepen  the  contempt  or 
the  compassion  of  the  reader;  but  when  he  falls 
from  adversity  to  prosperity  he  succeeds  in  soaring 
down  and  sinking  up  to  a  more  tragicomic  igno- 


Charles  Dickens  95 

miny  of  more  aspiring  degradation.  And  his  end 
is  magnificent. 

It  must  always  be  interesting  as  well  as  curi- 
ous to  observe  the  natural  attitude  of  mind,  the 
inborn  instinct  of  intelligent  antipathy  or  sym- 
pathy, discernible  or  conjecturable  in  the  greatest 
writer  of  any  nation  at  any  particular  date,  with 
regard  to  the  characteristic  merits  or  demerits  of 
foreigners.  Dickens  was  once  most  unjustly  taxed 
with  injustice  to  the  French,  by  an  evidently  loyal 
and  cordial  French  critic,  on  the  ground  that  the 
one  Frenchman  of  any  mark  in  all  his  books  was 
a  murderer.  The  polypseudonomous  ruffian 
who  uses  and  wears  out  as  many  stolen  names  as 
ever  did  even  the  most  cowardly  and  virulent  of 
literary  poisoners  is  doubtless  an  unlovely  figure: 
but  not  even  Mr.  Peggotty  and  his  infant  niece  are 
painted  with  more  tender  and  fervent  sympathy 
than  the  good  Corporal  and  little  Bebelle.  Hugo 
could  not — even  omnipotence  has  its  limits — have 
given  a  more  perfect  and  living  picture  of  a  hero 
and  a  child.  I  wish  I  could  think  he  would  have 
given  it  as  the  picture  of  an  English  hero  and  an 
English  child.  But  I  do  think  that  Italian  readers 
of  "Little  Dorrit"  ought  to  appreciate  and  to  en- 
joy the  delightful  and  admirable  personality  of 
Cavalletto.  Mr.  Baptist  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard 
is  as  attractively  memorable  a  figure  as  his  excel- 
lent friend  Signor  Panco. 

And  how  much  more  might  be  said — would  the 
gods  annihilate  but  time  and  space  for  a  worthier 
purpose  than  that  of  making  two  lovers  happy — 


96  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

of  the  splendid  successes  to  be  noted  in  the  least 
successful  book  or  books  of  this  great  and  inex- 
haustible writer!  And  if  the  figure  or  develop- 
ment of  the  story  in  "Little  Dorrit,"  the  shapeliness 
in  parts  or  the  proportions  of  the  whole,  may  seem 
to  have  suffered  from  tight-lacing  in  this  part  and 
from  padding  in  that,  the  harmony  and  unity  of 
the  masterpiece  which  followed  it  made  ample  and 
gorgeous  amends.  In  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities" 
Dickens,  for  the  second  and  last  time,  did  history 
the  honour  to  enroll  it  in  the  service  of  fiction. 
This  faultless  work  of  tragic  and  creative  art  has 
nothing  of  the  rich  and  various  exuberance  which 
makes  of  "Barnaby  Rudge"  so  marvellous  an  ex- 
ample of  youthful  genius  in  all  the  glowing  growth 
of  its  bright  and  fiery  April;  but  it  has  the  classic 
and  poetic  symmetry  of  perfect  execution  and  of 
perfect  design.  One  or  two  of  the  figures  in  the 
story  which  immediately  preceded  it  are  unusually 
liable  to  the  usually  fatuous  objection  which  dul- 
ness  has  not  yet  grown  decently  ashamed  of  bring- 
ing against  the  characters  of  Dickens:  to  the 
charge  of  exaggeration  and  unreality  in  the  post- 
ure or  the  mechanism  of  puppets  and  of  daubs, 
which  found  its  final  and  supremely  offensive  ex- 
pression in  the  chattering  duncery  and  the  impu- 
dent malignity  of  so  consummate  and  pseudosophi- 
cal  a  quack  as  George  Henry  Lewes.  Not  even 
such  a  past-master  in  the  noble  science  of  defama- 
tion could  plausibly  have  dared  to  cite  in  support 
of  his  insolent  and  idiotic  impeachment  either  the 
leading  or  the  supplementary  characters  in  "A  Tale 


Charles  Dickens  97 

of  Two  Cities."  The  pathetic  and  heroic  figure  of 
Sydney  Carton  seems  rather  to  have  cast  into  the 
shade  of  comparative  neglect  the  no  less  living  and 
admirable  figures  among  and  over  which  it  stands 
and  towers  in  our  memory.  Miss  Pross  and  Mr. 
Lorry,  Madame  Defarge  and  her  husband,  are 
equally  and  indisputably  to  be  recognised  by  the 
sign  of  eternal  life. 

Among  the  highest  landmarks  of  genius  ever 
reared  for  immortality  by  the  triumphant  genius 
of  Dickens,  the  story  of  "Great  Expectations" 
must  forever  stand  eminent  beside  that  of  "David 
Copperfield."  These  are  his  great  twin  master- 
pieces. Great  as  they  are,  there  is  nothing  in  them 
greater  than  the  very  best  things  in  some  of  his 
other  books :  there  is  certainly  no  person  preferable 
and  there  is  possibly  no  person  comparable  to 
Samuel  Weller  or  to  Sarah  Gamp.  Of  the  two 
childish  and  boyish  autobiographers,  David  is  the 
better  little  fellow  though  not  the  more  lifelike 
little  friend;  but  of  all  first  chapters  is  there  any 
comparable  for  impression  and  for  fusion  of 
humour  and  terror  and  pity  and  fancy  and  truth 
to  that  which  confronts  the  child  with  the  convict 
on  the  marshes  in  the  twilight?  And  the  story  is 
incomparably  the  finer  story  of  the  two ;  there  can 
be  none  superior,  if  there  be  any  equal  to  it,  in  the 
whole  range  of  English  fiction.  And  except  in 
"Vanity  Fair"  and  "The  Newcomes,"  if  even  they 
may  claim  exception,  there  can  surely  be  found  no 
equal  or  nearly  equal  number  of  living  and  ever- 
living  figures.     The  tragedy  and  the  comedy,  the 


98  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

realism  and  the  dreamery  of  life,  are  fused  or 
mingled  together  with  little  less  than  Shakespear- 
ean strength  and  skill  of  hand.  To  have  created 
Abel  Magwitch  is  to  be  a  god  indeed  among  the 
creators  of  deathless  men.  Pumblechook  is  act- 
ually better  and  droller  and  truer  to  imaginative 
life  than  Pecksniff :  Joe  Gargery  is  worthy  to  have 
been  praised  and  loved  at  once  by  Fielding  and  by 
Sterne:  Mr.  Jaggers  and  his  clients,  Mr.  Wem- 
mick  and  his  parent  and  his  bride,  are  such  figures 
as  Shakespeare,  when  dropping  out  of  poetry, 
might  have  created,  if  his  lot  had  been  cast  in  a 
later  century.  Can  as  much  be  said  for  the  crea- 
tures of  any  other  man  or  god?  The  ghastly 
tragedy  of  Miss  Havisham  could  only  have  been 
made  at  once  credible  and  endurable  by  Dickens; 
he  alone  could  have  reconciled  the  strange  and 
sordid  horror  with  the  noble  and  pathetic  survival 
of  possible  emotion  and  repentance.  And  he  alone 
could  have  eluded  condemnation  for  so  gross  an 
oversight  as  the  escape  from  retribution  of  so  im- 
portant a  criminal  as  the  "double  murderer  and 
monster"  whose  baffled  or  inadequate  attempts  are 
enough  to  make  Bill  Sikes  seem  comparatively  the 
gentlest  and  Jonas  Chuzzlewit  the  most  amiable 
of  men.  I  remember  no  such  flaw  in  any  other 
story  I  ever  read.  But  in  this  story  it  may  well 
have  been  allowed  to  pass  unrebuked  and  un- 
observed: which  yet  I  think  it  should  not. 

Among  all  the  minor  and  momentary  figures 
which  flash  into  eternity  across  the  stage  of  Dick- 
ens, there  is  one  to  which  I  have  never  yet  seen 


Charles  Dickens  99 

the  tribute  of  grateful  homage  adequately  or  even 
decently  paid.  The  sonorous  claims  of  old  Bill 
Barley  on  the  reader's  affectionate  and  respectful 
interest  have  not  remained  without  response;  but 
the  landlord's  Jack  has  never  yet,  as  far  as  I  am 
aware,  been  fully  recognised  as  great  among  the 
greatest  of  the  gods  of  comic  fiction.  We  are  in- 
troduced to  this  lifelong  friend  in  a  waterside 
public-house  as  a  "grizzled  male  creature,  the 
'Jack'  of  the  little  causeway,  who  was  as  slimy  and 
smeary  as  if  he  had  been  low  watermark  too."  It 
is  but  for  a  moment  that  we  meet  him:  but 
eternity  is  in  that  moment. 

"While  we  were  comforting  ourselves  by  the 
fire  after  our  meal,  the  Jack — who  was  sitting  in 
a  corner,  and  who  had  a  bloated  pair  of  shoes  on, 
which  he  had  exhibited,  while  we  were  eating  our 
eggs  and  bacon,  as  interesting  relics  that  he  had 
taken  a  few  days  ago  from  the  feet  of  a  drowned 
seaman  washed  ashore — asked  me  if  we  had  seen 
a  four-oared  galley  going  up  with  the  tide  ?  When 
I  told  him  No,  he  said  she  must  have  gone  down 
then,  and  yet  she  'took  up  two,'  when  she  left 
there. 

"  'They  must  ha'  thought  better  on't  for  some 
reason  or  another,'  said  the  Jack,  'and  gone  down.' 

"  'A  four-oared  galley,  did  you  say?'  said  I. 

"  'A  four,'  said  the  Jack,  'and  two  sitters.' 

"  'Did  they  come  ashore  here?' 

"  'They  put  in  with  a  stone  two-gallon  jar  for 
some  beer.     I'd  ha'  been  glad  to  pison  the  beer 


100  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

myself,'  said  the  Jack,  'or  put  some  rattling  physic 
in  it.' 

"  'Why?' 

"  '/  know  why,'  said  the  Jack.  He  spoke  in  a 
slushy  voice,  as  if  much  mud  had  washed  into  his 
throat. 

"  'He  thinks,'  said  the  landlord,  a  weakly  medi- 
tative man  with  a  pale  eye,  who  seemed  to  rely 
greatly  on  his  Jack,  'he  thinks  they  was,  what  they 
wasn't.' 

"  'I  knows  what  I  thinks,'  observed  the  Jack. 

"  'You  thinks  Custom  'Us,  Jack?'  said  the  land- 
lord. 

"  'I  do,'  said  the  Jack. 

"  'Then  you're  wrong,  Jack.' 

"'AM  I!' 

"In  the  infinite  meaning  of  his  reply  and  his 
boundless  confidence  in  his  views,  the  Jack  took 
one  of  his  bloated  shoes  off,  looked  into  it,  knocked 
a  few  stones  out  of  it  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  put 
it  on  again.  He  did  this  with  the  air  of  a  Jack 
who  was  so  right  that  he  could  afford  to  do  any- 
thing. 

"  'Why,  what  do  you  make  out  that  they  done 
with  their  buttons  then,  Jack?'  said  the  landlord, 
vacillating  weakly. 

"  'Done  with  their  buttons?'  returned  the  Jack. 
'Chucked  'em  overboard.  Swallered  'em.  Sowed 
'em,  to  come  up  small  salad.  Done  with  their  but- 
tons!' 

"  'Don't  be  cheeky,  Jack,'  remonstrated  the  land- 
lord, in  a  melancholy  and  pathetic  way. 


Charles  Dickens  .10.1 

"  'A  Custom  'Us  officer  knows  what  to  do  with 
his  Buttons,'  said  the  Jack,  repeating  the  obnox- 
ious word  with  the  greatest  contempt,  'when  they 
comes  betwixt  him  and  his  own  light.  A  Four  and 
two  sitters  don't  go  hanging  and  hovering,  up  with 
one  tide  and  down  with  another,  and  both  with  and 
against  another,  without  there  being  Custom  'Us 
at  the  bottom  of  it.'  Saying  which  he  went  out 
in  disdain." 

To  join  Francis  the  drawer  and  Cob  the  water- 
bearer  in  an  ever-blessed  immortality. 

This  was  the  author's  last  great  work:  the  de- 
fects in  it  are  as  nearly  imperceptible  as  spots  on 
the  sun  or  shadows  on  a  sunlit  sea.  His  last  long 
story,  "Our  Mutual  Friend,"  superior  as  it  is  in 
harmony  and  animation  to  "Little  Dorrit"  or 
"Dombey  and  Son,"  belongs  to  the  same  class  of 
piebald  or  rather  skewbald  fiction.  As  in  the  first 
great  prose  work  of  the  one  greater  and  far  greater 
genius  then  working  in  the  world  the  cathedral  of 
Notre  Dame  is  the  one  prevailing  and  dominating 
presence,  the  supreme  and  silent  witness  of  life 
and  action  and  passion  and  death,  so  in  this  last 
of  its  writer's  completed  novels  the  real  protago- 
nist— for  the  part  it  plays  is  rather  active  than  pas- 
sive— is  the  river.  Of  a  play  attributed  on  the 
obviously  worthless  authority  of  all  who  knew  or 
who  could  have  known  anything  about  the  matter 
to  William  Shakespeare,  but  now  ascribed  on  the 
joint  authority  of  Bedlam  and  Hanwell  to  the 
joint    authorship    of    Francis    Bacon    and    John 


302  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Fletcher,  assisted  by  the  fraternal  collaboration 
of  their  fellow-poets  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  King 
James  I,  it  was  very  unjustly  said  by  Dr.  John- 
son that  "the  genius  of  the  author  comes  in  and 
goes  out  with  Queen  Katharine."  Of  this  book  it 
might  more  justly  be  said  that  the  genius  of  the 
author  ebbs  and  flows  with  the  disappearance  and 
the  reappearance  of  the  Thames. 

That  unfragrant  and  insanitary  waif  of  its  rot- 
tenest  refuse,  the  incomparable  Rogue  Riderhood, 
must  always  hold  a  chosen  place  among  the  choicest 
villains  of  our  selectest  acquaintance.  When  the 
genius  of  his  immortal  creator  said  "Let  there  be 
Riderhood,"  and  there  was  Riderhood,  a  figure  of 
coequal  immortality  rose  reeking  and  skulking  into 
sight.  The  deliciously  amphibious  nature  of  the 
venomous  human  reptile  is  so  wonderfully  pre- 
served in  his  transference  from  Southwark  Bridge 
to  Plashwater  Weir  Mill  Lockhouse  that  we  feel 
it  impossible  for  imagination  to  detach  the  water- 
snake  from  the  water,  the  water-rat  from  the  mud. 
There  is  a  horrible  harmony,  a  hellish  consistency, 
in  the  hideous  part  he  takes  in  the  martyrdom  of 
Betty  Higden — the  most  nearly  intolerable 
tragedy  in  all  the  tragic  work  of  Dickens.  Even 
the  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable  grandeur  and 
beauty  of  the  martyred  old  heroine's  character  can 
hardly  make  the  wonderful  record  of  her  heroic 
agony  endurable  by  those  who  have  been  so  ten- 
derly and  so  powerfully  compelled  to  love  and  to 
revere  her.  The  divine  scene  in  the  children's  hos- 
pital is  something  that  could  only  have  been  con- 


Charles  Dickens  103 

ceived  and  that  could  only  have  been  realised  by 
two  of  the  greatest  among  writers  and  creators:  it 
is  a  curious  and  memorable  thing  that  they  should 
have  shone  upon  our  sight  together. 

We  can  only  guess  what  manner  of  tribute  Vic- 
tor Hugo  might  have  paid  to  Dickens  on  reading 
how  Johnny  "bequeathed  all  he  had  to  dispose  of, 
and  arranged  his  affairs  in  this  world."  But  a 
more  incomparable  scene  than  this  is  the  resurrec- 
tion of  Rogue  Riderhood.  That  is  one  of  the  very 
greatest  works  of  any  creator  who  ever  revealed 
himself  as  a  master  of  fiction;  a  word,  it  should  be 
unnecessary  to  repeat,  synonymous  with  the  word 
creation.  The  terrible  humour  of  it  holds  the 
reader  entranced  alike  at  the  first  and  the  hun- 
dredth reading.  And  the  blatant  boobies  who  deny 
truthfulness  and  realism  to  the  imagination  or  the 
genius  of  Dickens,  because  it  never  condescended 
or  aspired  to  wallow  in  metaphysics  or  in  filth,  may 
be  fearlessly  challenged  to  match  this  scene  for 
tragicomic  and  everlasting  truth  in  the  work  of 
Sardou  or  Ibsen,  of  the  bisexual  George  Eliot  or 
the  masculine  "Miss  Maevia  Mannish."  M.  Zola, 
had  he  imagined  it,  as  undoubtedly  his  potent  and 
indisputable  genius  might  have  done,  must  have 
added  a  flavour  of  blood  and  a  savour  of  ordure 
which  would  hardly  have  gratified  or  tickled  the 
nostrils  and  the  palate  of  Dickens:  but  it  is  pos- 
sible that  this  insular  delicacy  or  prudery  of  relish 
and  of  sense  may  not  be  altogether  a  pitiable  in- 
firmity or  a  derisible  defect.  Every  scene  in  which 
Mr.  Inspector  or  Miss  Abbey  Potterson  figures  is 


104  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

as  lifelike  as  it  could  be  if  it  were  foul  instead  of 
fair — if  it  were  as  fetid  with  the  reek  of  malodorous 
realism  as  it  is  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  kindly 
and  homely  nature. 

The  fragmentary  "Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood" 
has  things  in  it  worthy  of  Dickens  at  his  best: 
whether  the  completed  work  would  probably  have 
deserved  a  place  among  his  best  must  always  be  an 
open  question.  It  is  certain  that  if  Shakespeare 
had  completed  "The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen";  if 
Hugo  had  completed  "Les  Jumeaux";  or  if 
Thackeray  had  completed  "Denis  Duval,"  the 
world  would  have  been  richer  by  a  deathless  and  a 
classic  masterpiece.  It  is  equally  certain  that  the 
grim  and  tragic  humours  of  the  opium  den  and  the 
boy-devil  are  worthy  of  the  author  of  "Barnaby 
Rudge,"  that  the  leading  villain  is  an  original 
villain  of  great  promise,  and  that  the  interest  which 
assuredly,  for  the  average  reader,  is  not  awakened 
in  Mr.  Drood  and  Miss  Bud  is  naturally  aroused 
by  the  sorrows  and  perils  of  the  brother  and  sister 
whose  history  is  inwoven  with  theirs.  It  is  uncer- 
tain beyond  all  reach  of  reasonable  conjecture 
whether  the  upshot  of  the  story  would  have  been 
as  satisfactory  as  the  conclusion,  for  instance,  of 
"David  Copperfield"  or  "Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  or 
as  far  from  satisfactory  as  the  close  of  "Little  Dor- 
rit"  or  "Dombey  and  Son." 

If  Dickens  had  never  in  his  life  undertaken  the 
writing  of  a  long  story,  he  would  still  be  great 
among  the  immortal  writers  of  his  age  by  grace  of 
his  matchless  excellence  as  a  writer  of  short  stories. 


Charles  Dickens  105 

His  earlier  Christmas  books  might  well  suffice  for 
the  assurance  of  a  lasting  fame;  and  the  best  of 
them  are  far  surpassed  in  excellence  by  his  contri- 
butions to  the  Christmas  numbers  of  his  successive 
'magazines.  We  remember  the  noble  "Chimes," 
the  delightful  "Carol,"  the  entrancing  "Cricket  on 
the  Hearth,"  the  delicious  Tetterbys  who  make 
"The  Haunted  Man  and  the  Ghost's  Bargain"  im- 
mortal and  unghostly,  and  even  the  good  stolid 
figure  of  Clemency  Newcome,  which  redeems 
from  the  torpid  peace  of  absolute  nonentity  so 
nearly  complete  a  failure  as  "The  Battle  of  Life"; 
but  the  Christmas  work  done  for  "Household 
Words"  and  "All  the  Year  Round"  is  at  its  best 
on  a  higher  level  than  the  best  of  these.  "The 
Wreck  of  the  Golden  Mary"  is  the  work  of  a 
genius  till  then  unimaginable — a  Defoe  with  a  hu- 
man heart.  More  lifelike  or  more  accurate  in 
seamanship,  more  noble  and  natural  in  manhood, 
it  could  not  have  been  if  the  soul  of  Shakespeare 
or  of  Hugo  had  entered  into  the  somewhat  inhu- 
man or  at  least  insensitive  genius  which  begot 
Robinson  Crusoe  on  Moll  Flanders. 

Among  the  others  every  reader  will  have  his 
special  favourites;  I  do  not  say  his  chosen  favour- 
ites; he  will  not  choose  but  find  them;  it  is  not  a 
question  to  be  settled  by  judgment  but  by  instinct. 
All  are  as  good  of  their  kind  as  they  need  be :  chil- 
dren and  schoolboys,  soldiers  and  sailors,  showmen 
and  waiters,  landladies  and  cheap- jacks,  signalmen 
and  cellarmen:  all  of  them  actual  and  convincing, 
yet  all  of  them  sealed  of  the  tribe  of  Dickens ;  real 


106  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

if  ever  any  figures  in  any  book  were  real,  yet  as 
unmistakable  in  their  paternity  as  the  children  of 
Chaucer,  of  Shakespeare,  or  of  Fielding.  A  mod- 
est and  honest  critic  will  always,  when  dealing  with 
questions  of  preference  in  such  matters,  be  guided 
by  the  example  of  the  not  always  exemplary  Mr. 
Jingle — "not  presume  to  dictate,  but  broiled 
fowl  and  mushrooms — capital  thing!"  He  may 
in  that  case  indicate  his  own  peculiar  addiction  to 
the  society  of  Toby  Magsman  and  Mr.  Chops, 
Captain  Jorgan,  Mr.  Christopher  (surely  one  of 
the  most  perfect  figures  ever  drawn  and  coloured 
by  such  a  hand  as  Shakespeare's  or  Dekker's  or 
Sterne's  or  Thackeray's) ,  Mrs.  Lirriper  and  Major 
Jackman,  Dr.  Marigold,  and  Barbox  Brothers. 
The  incredible  immensity,  measurable  by  no  critic 
ever  born,  of  such  a  creative  power  as  was  needed 
to  call  all  these  into  immortal  life  would  surely, 
had  Dickens  never  done  any  work  on  a  larger  scale 
of  invention  and  construction,  have  sufficed  for  a 
fame  great  enough  to  deserve  the  applause  and  the 
thanksgiving  of  all  men  worthy  to  acclaim  it,  and 
the  contempt  of  such  a  Triton  of  the  minnows  as 
Matthew  Arnold.  A  man  whose  main  achieve- 
ment in  creative  literature  was  to  make  himself  by 
painful  painstaking  into  a  sort  of  pseudo- Words- 
worth could  pay  no  other  tribute  than  that  of 
stolid  scorn  to  a  genius  of  such  inexhaustible  force 
and  such  indisputable  originality  as  that  of  Charles 
Dickens.  It  is  not  always  envy,  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve, which  disables  and  stupefies  such  brilliant 
and  versatile  examples  of  the  minor  poet  and  the 


Charles  Dickens  107 

minor  critic  when  appreciation  of  anything  new 
and  great  is  found  impossible  for  their  self-com- 
placent and  self-centred  understanding  to  attain. 
It  is  just  that  they  cannot  see  high  enough;  they 
were  born  so,  and  will  please  themselves;  as  they 
do,  and  always  did,  and  always  will.  And  not 
even  the  tribute  of  equals  or  superiors  is  more  pre- 
cious and  more  significant  than  such  disdain  or  such 
distaste  as  theirs. 

These  Christmas  numbers  are  not,  because  of 
their  small  bulk,  to  be  classed  among  the  minor 
works  of  Dickens;  they  are  gems  as  costly  as  any 
of  the  larger  in  his  crown  of  fame.  Of  his  lesser 
works  the  best  and  most  precious  is  beyond  all 
question  or  comparison  "The  Uncommercial 
Traveller";  a  book  which  would  require  another 
volume  of  the  same  size  to  praise  it  adequately  or 
aright.  Not  that  there  are  not  other  short  studies 
as  good  as  its  very  best  among  the  "reprinted 
pieces"  which  preserve  for  us  and  for  all  time  the 
beloved  figure  of  Our  Bore,  the  less  delightful 
figures  of  the  noble  savage  and  the  begging-letter 
writer,  the  pathetic  plaint  of  Mr.  Meek,  and  the 
incomparable  studies  and  stories  of  the  detective 
police.  We  could  perhaps  dispense  with  "Pic- 
tures from  Italy,"  and  even  with  "American 
Notes,"  except  for  the  delicious  account  or  nar- 
rative or  description  of  sea-sickness,  which  will  al- 
ways give  such  exquisite  intensity  of  rapture  to 
boys  born  impervious  to  that  ailment  and  suscepti- 
ble only  of  enjoyment  in  rough  weather  at  sea  as 
can  hardly  be  rivalled  by  the  delight  of  man  or  boy 


108  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

in  Mrs.  Gamp  herself.  But  there  is  only  one  book 
which  I  cannot  but  regret  that  Dickens  should 
have  written;  and  I  cannot  imagine  what  evil  imp, 
for  what  inscrutable  reason  in  the  unjustifiable 
designs  of  a  malevolent  Providence,  was  ever  per- 
mitted to  suggest  to  him  the  perpetration  of  a 
"Child's  History  of  England."  I  would  almost 
as  soon  train  up  a  child  on  Catholic  or  Calvinistic 
or  servile  or  disloyal  principles  as  on  the  cheap- 
jack  radicalism  which  sees  nothing  to  honour  or 
love  or  revere  in  history,  and  ought  therefore  to 
confess  that  it  can  in  reason  pretend  to  see  noth- 
ing on  which  to  build  any  hope  of  patriotic  ad- 
vance or  progressive  endurance  in  the  future. 

A  word  may  be  added  on  the  everlasting  subject 
of  editors  and  editions:  a  subject  on  which  it  really 
seems  impossible  that  the  countrymen  of  Shake- 
speare and  of  Dickens  should  ever  be  aroused  to  a 
sense  that  the  matter  is  really  worth  care  and  con- 
sideration. Instead  of  reprinting  the  valuable  and 
interesting  prefaces  written  by  Dickens  for  the 
first  cheap  edition  of  his  collected  works  (a  poor 
little  double-columned  reissue),  the  publishers  of 
the  beautiful  and  convenient  Gadshill  series  are 
good  enough  to  favour  its  purchasers  with  the  pref- 
atory importunities  of  a  writer  disentitled  to  ex- 
press and  disqualified  to  form  an  opinion  on  the 
work  of  an  English  humourist.  The  intrusive  con- 
descension or  adulation  of  such  a  commentator  was 
perhaps  somewhat  superfluous  in  front  of  the  re- 
printed Waverley  Novels;  the  offence  becomes  an 
outrage,    the    impertinence    becomes    impudence, 


Charles  Dickens  109 

when  such  rubbish  is  shot  down  before  the  doorstep 
of  Charles  Dickens. 

It  is  curious  to  compare  the  posthumous  fortune 
of  two  such  compeers  in  fame  as  Dickens  and 
Thackeray.  Rivals  they  were  not  and  could  not  be : 
comparison  or  preference  of  their  respective  work 
is  a  subject  fit  only  to  be  debated  by  the  energetic 
idleness  of  boyhood.  In  life  Dickens  was  the  more 
prosperous:  Thackeray  has  had  the  better  fortune 
after  death.  To  the  exquisite  genius,  the  tender 
devotion,  the  faultless  taste  and  the  unfailing  tact 
of  his  daughter,  we  owe  the  most  perfect  memorial 
ever  raised  to  the  fame  and  to  the  character  of  any 
great  writer  on  record  by  any  editor  or  commenta- 
tor or  writer  of  prefaces  or  preludes  to  his  work. 
A  daughter  of  Dickens  has  left  us  a  very  charming 
little  volume  of  reminiscences  in  which  we  enjoy 
the  pleasure  and  honour  of  admission  to  his  pri- 
vate presence :  we  yet  await  an  edition  of  his  works 
which  may  be  worthy  to  stand  beside  the  biograph- 
ical edition  of  Thackeray's.  So  much  we  ought 
to  have :  we  can  demand  and  we  can  desire  no  more. 


VII 
AN  UNKNOWN  POET 

1875 


AN  UNKNOWN  POET 

IT  is  said  that  all  books  find  their  level  sooner 
or  later;  and  indeed  one  would  not  willingly 
believe  that  anything  of  the  highest  worth  can 
in  the  end  be  rejected  by  the  judgment  of  men. 
Yet  some  great  works  there  undoubtedly  are  which 
never  seem  likely  to  win  their  due  place  in  general 
repute.  How  it  is  that  they  miss  of  fame  it  were 
hard  to  say;  but  some  cross  chance  has  neverthe- 
less thrown  them  out  of  the  straight  way  to  it 
which  we  should  have  thought  natural  for  them  to 
take,  and  triumph;  and  time,  that  sets  to  right  so 
much,  forgets  to  settle  their  account  with  the  celeb- 
rities and  publicities  of  their  day.  Some  books, 
like  some  men,  seem  to  have  come  into  the  world 
with  the  brand  of  mischance  on  them  for  birthmark. 
Otherwise  it  would  hardly  be  needful  to  refer  any 
reader,  at  the  distance  of  more  than  half  a  century, 
to  an  early  sonnet  of  Keats  for  introduction  to  the 
name  of  Mr.  Wells.  This  sonnet,  written  before 
the  author's  friend  had  himself  come  forward  as  a 
poet,  remains  almost  the  only  indication  extant,  be- 
sides the  all  but  forgotten  existence  of  his  own 
writings,  that  such  a  man  was  alive  in  that  second 
golden  age  of  English  poetry  which  was  com- 
prised within  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth 
century;  unless  the  two  or  three  yet  fainter  refer- 
ences to  be  found  in  the  published  correspondence 
of  Keats  be  admitted  as  further  evidence.     But 

113 


114  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

about  a  year  after  the  death  of  that  poet  a  puny 
volume,  hardly  heavier  than  a  pamphlet,  labelled 
"Stories  after  Nature,"  was  cast  upon  the  waters 
of  the  world,  which  received  it  with  unanimous  neg- 
lect, and  has  not  yet  found  it  after  these  many 
days;  to  be  followed  in  two  years'  time  by  a 
"Scriptural  Drama,"  bearing  the  more  decorous 
than  attractive  title  of  "Joseph  and  his  Brethren," 
and  issued  under  the  pseudonym  of  H.  L.  How- 
ard; with  a  preface  dated  from  London,  a  motto 
taken  from  Milton,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty-two 
pages  of  clear  print.  The  book  has  long  since  sunk 
so  far  out  of  general  sight  that  the  evidence  of  such 
details  is  necessary  to  convince  us  that  poem  and 
poet  are  not  as  unsubstantial  as  the  personality  of 
the  sponsor  Howard,  as  undiscoverable  as  the  rea- 
son which  may  have  induced  the  author  to  prefer 
the  anonymous  form  of  venture  for  his  first  book, 
the  pseudonymous  for  his  second.  Assuredly 
there  was  in  his  case  no  reason  for  fear  or  shame 
in  the  publication  of  work  not  unworthy  of  the 
time  when  England  still  held,  or  still  divided  with 
the  land  of  Goethe,  that  place  at  the  head  of  Euro- 
pean literature  which  France  was  to  assume  and 
retain  after  the  mighty  movement  of  1830.  Yet, 
though  there  was  proof  enough  in  the  latter  of 
these  two  little  books  that  a  new  poet  was  in  the 
world,  and  one  only  lesser  than  the  greatest  of  his 
time  in  some  of  the  greatest  qualities  of  his  art,  the 
critics  of  the  minute  could  not  even  spare  such  no- 
tice to  his  work  as  they  had  accorded  to  that  of 
Keats;   not   an   owl   thought   it   worth   while    to 


An  Unknown  Poet  115 

stretch  his  throat,  not  an  ass  to  lift  up  his  heel 
against  the  workman.  So  the  books  vanished  at 
once;  and  now  only  by  such  happy  chance  as  some- 
times may  come  to  the  help  of  assiduous  research 
can  they  be  dug  up  from  the  cemeteries  of  litera- 
ture. At  rare  casual  intervals  some  thin  and 
reedy  note  of  eulogy  has  been  uttered  over  the 
grave  of  a  noble  poem,  bewitched  as  it  were  to  a 
sleep  like  death;  and  has  always  hitherto  failed  of 
a  hearing.  Nor  did  even  the  choice  and  eloquent 
words  of  praise  bestowed  on  it  by  Mr.  Rossetti  in 
a  supplementary  chapter  to  Gilchrist's  Life  of 
Blake  succeed  in  attracting  the  notice  which  Blake 
himself  had  not  yet  won  from  our  generation. 
Notwithstanding,  the  truth  remains,  that  the  au- 
thor of  "Joseph  and  his  Brethren"  will  some  day 
have  to  be  acknowledged  among  the  memorable 
men  of  the  second  great  period  in  our  poetry. 

The  first  publication  of  Mr.  Wells,  written  it 
is  said  in  his  earliest  youth,  has  much  of  the  charm 
and  something  of  the  weakness  natural  to  the  first 
flight  and  the  first  note  of  a  song-bird,  whose  wings 
have  yet  to  grow,  and  whose  notes  have  yet  to 
deepen;  yet  in  its  first  flutterings  and  twitterings 
there  is  a  nameless  grace,  a  beauty  indefinable, 
which  belongs  only  to  the  infancy  of  genius  as  it  be- 
longs only  to  the  infancy  of  life.  To  a  reader  of 
the  age  at  which  this  book  was  written  it  will  seem 
— or  so  at  least  it  seemed  to  me — "perfect  in  grace 
and  power,  tender  and  exquisite  in  choice  of  lan- 
guage, full  of  a  noble  and  masculine  delicacy  in  feel- 
ing and  purpose";  and  he  will  be  ready  to  attribute 


116  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

the  utter  neglect  which  has  befallen  it  simply  "to 
the  imbecile  caprice  of  hazard  and  opinion."  Even 
then,  however,  he  will  perceive,  if  there  be  in  him 
any  critical  judgment  or  any  promise  of  such 
faculty  to  come,  that  the  style  of  these  stories  is 
too  near  poetry  to  be  really  praiseworthy  as  prose ; 
that  they  relish  of  a  bastard  graft;  that  they  halt 
between  two  kinds  of  merit.  At  times  they  will 
seem  to  him  almost  to  attain  the  standard  of  the 
Decameron ;  yet  even  he  will  remark  that  they  want 
the  direct  aim  and  clear  comprehension  of  story 
which  are  never  wanting  in  Boccaccio.  That  per- 
fect narrative  power  which  sustains  the  most  poet- 
ical stories  even  of  the  fifth  day  of  the  Decameron, 
keeping  always  in  full  view  the  simple  prose  of 
the  event,  is  too  often  lacking  here.  And  the 
youngest  reader  will  probably  take  note  that 
"there  is  a  savour  of  impossibility  (so  to  speak), 
a  sort  of  incongruous  beauty  dividing  the  subject 
and  the  style,  which  removes  the  'Stories  after  Na- 
ture' from  our  complete  apprehension,  and  baffles 
the  reader's  delight  in  them" ;  that  "even  the  license 
of  a  fairy  tale  is  here  abruptly  leapt  over;  names 
and  places  are  thrust  in  which  perplex  the  very 
readiest  belief  even  of  that  factitious  kind  which 
we  may  accord  to  things  practically  impossible: 
English  kings  and  Tuscan  dukes  occupy  the  place 
reserved  in  the  charity  of  our  imaginations  for 
kings  of  Lyonesse  and  princesses  of  Garba;  the 
language  also  is  often  cast  in  the  mould  of  Eliza- 
bethan convention;  absolute  Euphuism,  with  all  its 
fantastic  corruptions  of  style,  breaks  out  and  runs 


An  Unknown  Poet  117 

rampant  here  and  there;  especially  in  a  few  of  the 
more  passionate  speeches  this  starched  ugliness  of 
ruff  and  rebato  will  be  felt  to  stiffen  and  deform 
the  style  of  the  same  page  which  contains  some  of 
the  sweetest  and  purest  English  ever  written." 
On  taking  up  the  little  book  again  in  after  years 
he  will  also  discern  the  perceptible  influence  of 
Leigh  Hunt  in  some  of  the  stories;  and  that  sweet 
and  graceful  essayist,  much  of  whose  critical  work, 
and  not  a  little  of  his  poetical,  retains  its  charm  to 
this  day,  a  soft  light  fragrance  less  evanescent 
than  it  seems,  had  set  no  good  example  in  his  short 
sentimental  narratives  for  any  pupil  to  follow. 
One  or  two  at  least  of  the  younger  poet's  stories, 
had  we  found  them  in  the  Indicator  or  some  other 
of  Hunt's  magazines,  we  should  I  think  have  set 
down  as  somewhat  thin  and  empty  samples  of  the 
editor's  hastier  work ;  in  others  there  is  a  fresh  and 
exquisite  beauty  which  is  due  to  no  inspiration  but 
his  own. 

But  in  whatever  degree  the  undeniable  presence 
of  minor  faults  and  mere  stains  of  carelessness  may 
excuse  the  neglect  of  Mr.  Wells's  prose  stories,  no 
such  plea  of  passing  defect  can  extenuate  the 
scandal  of  the  fact  that  to  this  day  his  great  dra- 
matic poem  remains  known  perhaps  on  the  whole 
to  about  half  a  dozen  students  of  English  art.  As 
its  extreme  simplicity  of  design  would  make  the 
analytic  method  of  criticism  here  inapplicable,  I 
shall  merely  attempt  to  give  a  slight  practical  taste 
of  its  quality  by  such  excerpts  as  may  seem  to  me 
likeliest  or  fittest  to  convey  some  adequate  percep- 


118  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

tion  of  the  spirit  and  the  style  of  a  work  in  which 
the  hardest  things  are  done  best,  and  the  author's 
capacity  of  success  expands  with  his  occasion  for  it. 
The  poem  opens  with  a  chorus  which  in  point  of 
mere  beauty  of  words  and  solemn  power  of  cadence 
is  as  noticeable  as  any  part  of  the  book.  Take  the 
first  lines  as  a  sample: 

"In  the  dim  age  when  yet  the  rind  of  earth, 
Unworn  by  time,  gave  eager  nature  life, 
Zealous  to  furnish  what  the  seasons  wore 
That  in   a  vigorous  brightness   flourished; 
When  light  and  dark  and  constellations  bright, 
The  splendid  sun,  the  silent  gliding  moon, 
Governed  men's  habits;  taught  them  when  to  thrive, 
To  rest,  and  sleep ;  till  full  of  temperate  years, 
Rude  in  their  art,  and  ignorant  of  all 
Save  passions  and  affections  wild,  untaught, 
They  sank  like  giants  in  an  earthy  pit, 
Leaving  the  generation  of  their  days 
'Twixt  grief  and  reverence  to  mourn  their  loss 
And  miss  them  from  the  village  and  the  field; — 
God's  voice   (that  mingled  up  the  beauteous  world, 
Inlaid  pure  heaven  and  sweetly  coloured  it; 
And  with  the  wondrous  magic  of  the  clouds 
Enveils  the  sacred  flooring  evermore. 
Without  bright  golden,  but  within  more  rare) 
Was  then  upon  the  earth  and  with  men's  ears, 
Creating  reverence  and  faith  and  love." 

Notwithstanding  the  weakness  and  tenuity  of 
workmanship  noticeable  in  some  of  these  verses, 
the  whole  overture  has  true  dignity  and  simple 
harmony,  of  which  we  may  take  in  witness  another 
line  or  two. 


An  Unknown  Poet  119 

"While  the  sun  sinking  from  his  daily  round 
Had  starred  the  heavens  like  a  fiery  flaw, 
Showing  his  glory  greater  than  the  west. 

He  was  declined 
A  god  gigantic  habited  in  gold, 
Stepping  from  off  a  mount  into  the  sea." 

But  the  whole  passage  from  which  these  verses  are 
torn  out  is  an  example  of  nobly  detailed  descrip- 
tion. About  the  slightest  part  of  it  there  is  a 
certain  exaltation  of  style  which  supports  the 
whole,  even  when  there  might  seem  an  over  sim- 
plicity or  superfluity  of  verse. 

The  first  part,  ending  with  the  sale  of  Joseph  to 
the  Midianites,  is  written  throughout  with  a  won- 
derful ease  and  stateliness  of  manner  which  recall 
the  more  equable  cadences  of  Shakespeare.  The 
pure  dramatic  quality  is  perhaps  best  shown  in  the 
characters  of  Reuben  and  Issachar,  where  the  poet 
has  found  least  material  for  his  workmanship  in 
the  original  story.  Especially  the  rough  spite  of 
this  latter,  as  deep  and  bitter  as  a  cooler  or  more 
patient  hatred  could  be,  is  so  well  given  that  his 
part  stands  out  distinct  in  our  memories  till  the 
end;  the  "strong  ass,"  hard  and  blunt,  readiest  to 
strike  and  slowest  to  suffer.  Jacob  again  is  a 
clear  and  vigorous  sketch;  all  excess  of  weakness 
has  been  avoided,  and  the  baser  aspect  of  age  and 
fondness  kept  out  of  our  thoughts.  There  is  a 
genuine  force  of  dramatic  effect  in  his  sudden  ap- 
pearance and  upbraiding  of  the  brothers. 


120  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

"Come  hither,  Joseph.     Up,  my  boy;  ne'er  weep. 
Cast  down  the  grapes,  the  fruits  and  figs  you  hear, 
That  were  to  sup  their  graceless  hungry  lips; 
Down  with  them  in  the  mire,  close  to  their  feet; 
And,  since  they  throw  away  the  love  of  men 
As  'twere  but  the  contemned  rind  of  life, 
Like  their  own  oxen  let  them  stoop  and  feed, 
Befitting  their  wild  passions;  for  I  swear, 
Nought  shall  they  eat  or  drink  from  off  my  board 
Until  the  dawn;  nor  then  unless  their  love 
Becurd  and  thicken;  and  their  anger  melt 
Like   icicles   away. 

Judah.  We  grieve  indeed 

That  you,  so  partial,  stint  us  of  your  love. 

Jacob.     A  lie !  a  lie !  you  envy  this  young  slip. 
Wilt  thou  teach  me,  thou  climbing,  scanty  elm? 

Me,  who  have  kept  my  brow  upon  men's  deeds 

More  than  six  times  thine  observation 

(Being  so  much  more  thine  age;  six  times  as  wise)  ? 

Will  you  tell  me  your  love  degrades  you  thus  ? 

I  have  a  fear  of  you; 
For  envy  might  lead  men  to  cast  poor  stones 
At  heaven  while  it  thunders;  death  waits  on  it; 
On  hatred  still  it  feeds,  and  hideous  dreams: 

In  meanness  it  begins;  proceeds  to  blood; 
And  dies  of  sallow  horror  by  itself." 

And  this  of  Joseph's,  a  little  further  on,  has  in  it 
a  grand  Elizabethan  echo: — 

"Would  they  be  envious,  let  them  then  be  great, 
Envy  old  cities,  ancient  neighbourhoods, 
Great  men  of  trust  and  iron-crowned  kings; 
For  household  envy  is  a  household  rat; 


An  Unknown  Poet  121 

Envy  of  state  a  devil  of  some  fear. 

E'en  in  my  sleep  my  mind  doth  eat  strange  food, 

Enough  to  strengthen  me  against  this  hate." 

But  indeed  all  this  scene  is  worth  study  for  re- 
served power  and  exquisite  expression.  The  next 
scene,  though  less  effective  at  first  sight,  is  well 
placed  as  an  interlude  of  rest  before  the  harsher 
action  of  the  drama.  From  the  scene  in  which 
Joseph  is  taken  and  sold,  and  the  forged  news  of 
his  death  broken  to  his  father,  it  is  very  difficult 
to  break  off  any  part  as  a  specimen.  We  find 
throughout  that  high  dramatic  insight  and  delicate 
justice  of  arrangement  which  can  only  be  under- 
stood by  a  straightforward  reading.  Such  frag- 
ments as  the  following  may  be  given  in  evidence 
of  the  author's  subtle  strength  of  style  and  com- 
mand of  sweet  words;  but  their  main  merit  is  lost 
in  the  violence  done  to  the  context  by  extracting 
them. 

"Simeon.     Reuben,  he  doth  contemn  us  of  his  birth; 

he   doth   take 

A  deep  exception  to  our  fellowship 
That  was  decreed  him  ere  he  was  begot. 
Rachel  (the  beautiful,  as  she  was  called) 
Despised  our  mother  Leah  for  that  she 
Was  tender-eyed,  lean-favoured,  and  did  lack 
The  pulpy  ripeness  swelling  the  white  skin 
To  sleek  proportions  beautiful  and  round, 
With  wrinkled  joints  so  fruitful  to  the  eye. 

Her  full  dark  eye,  whose  brightness  silvered  through 

The  sable  lashes  soft  as  camel-hair; 

Her  slanting  head  curved  like  the  maiden  moon 


122  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

And  hung  with  hair  luxuriant  as  a  vine 
And  blacker  than  a  storm ;  her  rounded  ear 
Turned  like  a  shell  upon  some  golden  shore; 

Her  whispering  foot  that  carried  all  her  weight 
Nor  left  its  little  pressure  on  the  sand; 
Her  lips  as  drowsy  poppies  soft  and  red 
Gathering  a   dew   from  her  escaping  breath: 

Her  neck  o'ersoftened  like  to  unsunned  curd; 
Her  tapering  fingers  rounded  to  a  point; 
The  silken  softness  of  her  veined  hand; 
Her  dimpled  knuckles  answering  to  her  chin; 
And  teeth  like  honeycombs  o'  the  wilderness: 
All  these  did  tend  to  a  bad  proof  in  her." 

There  is  something  in  this  passage  which  recalls 
the  luxury  and  exuberance,  if  not  the  vigour  and 
concentration,  of  Marlowe's  sweet  and  fiery  rap- 
tures. As  fine,  but  in  another  fashion,  is  the 
speech  of  Reuben  which  follows  it;  full  of  thought 
and  pliant  power  compressed  into  brief  grand 
words. 

"For  when  an  evil  deed  is  thus  abroach, 
The  will  predominant  the  judgment  blinds, 
And  he  who  seeks  to  lay  it  with  advice 
Feeds    and    provokes    it. 
The  will  doth  push  itself  beyond  itself, 
And  full  of  madness  doth  provoke  to  ire 
By  its  own  act,  to  fret  and  carve  a  way 
To  all  destruction.     Mercy  is  but  a  spur 
To  goad  on  faster  to  its  red  design ; 
And  sense  feeds  on  the  senses." 

Verses  as  good  as  these  might  be  gathered  from 
all  parts  of  the  first  act,  especially  in  the  scene 


An  Unknown  Poet  123 

where  Joseph  is  taken  from  the  pit  and  offered  to 
the  merchants — 

"Swarthy   Egyptians,  yellow  as  their  gold, 
Riding  on  mules ;" 

a  scene  which  abounds  in  passages  fit  for  citation; 
for  example,  the  description  of  the  costly  wares 
and  trading  life  of  the  Ishmaelites;  and  later  in 
the  play  we  may  note  the  imprecations  of  Reuben 
on  the  brethren  (too  much  prolonged  it  may  be, 
but  rich  in  splendid  verses  and  weighty  turns  of 
thought)  ;  the  gradual  breaking  of  the  evil  tidings 
to  Jacob;  and  the  lofty  prelude-music  of  the  cho- 
rus before  the  second  act.  But  the  crowning  tri- 
umph of  the  poem  is  to  be  found  there  where  the 
kernel  of  the  whole  story  lies.  Before  giving  any 
extracts  from  these  central  scenes,  some  rough 
summary  must  be  given  of  the  chief  character  in 
them  as  conceived  by  Mr.  Wells. 

Only  once  before  had  such  a  character  been 
given  with  supreme  success,  and  only  by  him  who 
has  given  all  things  rightly,  in  whom  there  was  no 
shadow  of  imperfection  or  failure.  In  the  Cleo- 
patra of  Shakespeare  and  in  the  heroine  of  the 
present  play  there  is  the  same  imperious  conscience 
of  power  by  right  of  supreme  beauty  and  supreme 
strength  of  will;  the  same  subtle  sweetness  of 
speech;  the  same  delicately  rendered  effect  of  per- 
fection in  word  and  gesture,  never  violated  or 
made  harsh  even  by  extreme  passion;  the  same  evi- 
dence of  luxurious  and  patient  pleasure  found  in 
all  things  sensually  pleasant;  the  same  capacity  of 


124  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

bitter  shame  and  wrath,  dormant  until  the  insult 
of  resistance  or  rebellion  has  been  offered;  the 
same  contemptuous  incapacity  to  understand  a 
narrower  passion  or  a  more  external  morality  than 
their  own;  the  same  rapid  and  supple  power  of 
practical  action.  All  women  in  literature  after 
these  two  seem  coarse  or  trivial  when  they  touch 
on  anything  sensual;  but  in  their  passion  there  is 
nothing  common  or  unclean;  nothing  paltry,  no 
taint  of  vulgar  sin  or  more  vulgar  repentance,  can 
touch  these  two.  And  this  the  later  poet,  at  least, 
has  made  out  of  the  slightest  and  thinnest  material 
possible;  his  original  being  not  only  insufficient — ■ 
the  very  bare  bones  of  conjecture,  the  suggestion 
of  a  skeleton  character — but  actually,  as  far  as 
it  was  anything  at  all,  so  associated  with  ideas 
simply  ludicrous  and  base  that  the  very  name  of 
"Potiphar's  wife"  has  the  sound  of  a  coarse  by- 
word. 

To  prove  by  detailed  extracts  the  truth  of  what 
has  been  said  is  no  light  task  within  such  limits  as 
ours.  Still  it  must  surely  be  evident  to  any  reader 
that  the  following  is  a  noble  and  most  dramatic 
opening,  worthy  of  Shakespeare's  own  art  and 
judgment.     Phraxanor  enters  laughing,  and  turns 

suddenly  upon  the  steward: — 

i 

"I  check  in  my  laughter;  dost  thou  notice  it? 

Canst  tell  me  why? 
Joseph.  Madam,  I  have  not  thought. 

Phraxanor.     Wert  thou  to  guess  on  the  left  side  of  me 

Thou'dst  wake  the  knowledge. 
Joseph.  How  so?     I  do  not  see. 


An  Unknown  Poet  125 

Phraxanor.     Because  my  heart  doth  grow  on  the  left  side. 

.  .  .  Ah  me !  alas ! 

My  mirth  was  of  my  head,  not  of  my  heart, 

And  mocked  my  patience. 
Joseph.  I  am  grieved  at  this. 

Phraxanor.     Nay,  no  physician  e'er  did  heal  a  wound 

By  grieving  at  the  hurt.     Yet  a  white  hand 

O'erspreaded  with  the  tendril  veins  of  youth 

Hath  quieted  a  lady's  gentle  side, 

And  taught  her  how  to  smile.   .  .  . 

Thou  dwell'dst  at  Canaan,  said'st  thou? 
Joseph.  Madam,  I  did. 

Phraxanor.     What  kind  of  air? 

Joseph.  Warm  and  congenial. 

Phraxanor.     Indeed?     I've  generally  heard  that  men 

Are  favoured  of  the  climate  where  they  live. 

Bethink  thee — surely  our  hot  Egypt  has 

Swolten  thy  recollection  of  the  place. 

Thou'rt  like  a  man  that's  nurtured  upon  ice, 

Fed  with  a  spongy  snow.  .   .   . 

Congenial,  said'st  thou? — There's  no  drop  that's  warm 

Coursing  another  round  those  purple  veins. 

Here,  let  me  touch  your  hand;  it  is  cold — cold — 

I've  Egypt's  sun  in  mine. 
Joseph.  Pure  fire  indeed. 

You  do  mistake;  my  hand  is  not  so  cold; 

Though  I  confess  I've  known  it  warmer  far, 

For  I  have  struggled  against  heated  blood 

And  am  proficient  in  forbearances. 
Phraxanor.     Indeed?  are  women's  wits  then  merely  dust 

Blown  by  a  puff  of  resolution 

Into  their  doting  eyes? 
Joseph.  Wit  is  but  air — 

For  dust  the  queen  becomes ;  if  she  be  good, 

She  breaks  to  gold  and  diamond  dust,  past  worth, 


126  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

The  proper  metal  of  a  perfect  star; 
If  she  be  not,  embalming  is  no  cure. 

Phraxanor.  Nay,  throw  aside 

This  ponderous  mask  of  gravity  you  wear, 

Or  give  it  me,  and  I  will  cast  it  forth 

To  where  my  husband  governs  his  affairs; 

It  will  not  reach  him,  nor  be  recognised 

More  than  if  he  were  blind.     Come  here,  I  say — 

Come  here. 
Joseph.  What  would  you,  madam?     I  attend. 

Phraxanor.     Why,  put  your  fingers  on  my  burning  brow 

That  you  have  stirred  into  this  quenchable  heat, 

And  touch  the  mischief  that  your  eye  has  made — 

Do  it,  I  say,  or  I  will  raise  the  house — 

Why,  that  is  well.      Now  I  will  never  say 

A  sudden  word  to  startle  thee  again, 

But  use  the  gentlest  breath  a  woman  has. 

Aye,  now  you  may  remove  your  hand.     Yet  stay — 

I  did  not  say  withdraw  it;  you  mistake; 

You  are  too  jealous  of  the  wondrous  toy, 

Leave  it  with  me  and  I  will  give  you  mine; 

I  hold  it  as  a  bird  that  I  do  love, 

Yet  fear  to  lose. — Fie  on  that  steward's  ring ! 

Now,  should  it  slip,  it  will  fall  in  my  neck." 

Left  alone,  and  foiled  for  a  time,  she  questions 
thus  with  herself; 

"Now  should  I  be  revenged  of  mine  own  face, 

And  with  my  nails  dig  all  this  beauty  out 

And  pit  it  into  honeycombs.     Yet  no; 

I  will  enjoy  the  air;  feed  daintily; 

Be  bountiful  in  smiles;   .  .  . 

For  he  who  will  not  stoop  him  for  desire 

Strides  o'er  that  pity  which  is  short  of  death. 


An  Unknown  Poet  127 

Vaporous  desire  like  a  flame  delayed 
Creeps  in  my  pulses  and  babbles  of  its  bounds 
Too  mean,  too  limited  a  girth  for  it. 
Impatience  frets  me;  yet  I  will  be  proud 
And  muse  upon  the  conquest  ere  'tis  won, 
For  won  it  shall  be.     Oh  dull  Potiphar, 
To  leave  thy  wife  and  travel  for  thy  thrift 
While  such  a  spirit  tendeth  here  her  wine. 
Ho,  give  me  music  there — play  louder — so." 

The  passion  of  these  scenes  is  managed  with 
such  a  noble  temperance  and  so  just  an  art,  that 
a  first  reading  even  of  the  play  in  full,  instead  of 
those  mangled  extracts,  plucked  up  almost  at  haz- 
ard, will  hardly  suffice  to  show  the  author's  superb 
mastery  of  his  own  genius.  Such  wealth  and  such 
wisdom  in  the  use  of  it,  such  luxury  and  such  for- 
bearance of  style,  are  in  the  highest  Elizabethan 
manner. 

In  the  next  scene  Phraxanor  reasons  of  love  with 
an  attendant,  whose  character,  the  very  dimmest 
sketch  possible,  is  designed  seemingly  as  a  relief 
to  her  own.  There  is  a  flavour  of  sentimental 
chastity  in  the  few  speeches  allotted  her  which 
makes  them  feeble  and  flimsy  enough;  but  this 
weak  emptiness  of  the  girl  serves  somehow  to  set 
off  and  exalt  the  splendid  sensuous  vigour  of 
Phraxanor's  share  in  the  dialogue.  Here  again 
we  can  but  give  the  opening,  and  a  few  more 
casual  fragments.  The  scene  is  of  some  length, 
but  throughout  of  solid  and  exquisite  value. 

"Phraxanor.     Dost  thou  despise  love  then? 
Attendant.  Madam,  not  quite: 


128  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

A  ruby  that  is  pure  is  better  worth 

Than  one  that's  flawed  and  streaked  with  the  light; 

So  is  a  heart. 
Phraxanor.     A  ruby  that  is  flawed 

Is  better  worth  than  one  that's  sunk  a  mile 

Beneath  the  dry  sand  of  some  desert  place; 

So  is  a  heart. 
Attendant.     Then,  madam,  you  would  say 

That  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  love. 
Phraxanor.     Not  quite ;  but  I  would  say  the  fiery  sun 

Doth  not  o'ershine  the  galaxy  so  far; 

Nor  doth  a  torch  within  a  jewelled  mine 

Amaze  the  eye  beyond  this  diamond  here 

More  than  the  ruddy  offices  of  love 

Do  glow  before  the  common  steps  of  life." 

This  last  has  the  absolute  ring  of  Shakespeare; 
"pure  fire  indeed."  There  are  in  the  same  scene 
two  magnificent  passages  of  prolonged  and  subtle 
rhetoric,  finer  perhaps  as  pieces  of  conscious  and 
imperious  sophistry  than  anything  in  the  way  of 
poetical  reasoning  that  has  since  been  done.  The 
first,  a  panegyric  on  love; 

"Bravery  of  suits  enriching  the  bright  eye; 
Sweetness  of  person ;  pleasure  in  discourse ; 
And  all  the  reasons  why  men  love  themselves; 
Nay,  even  high  offices,  renown  and  praise, 
Greatness  of  name,  honour  of  men's  regard, 
Power  and  state  and  sumptuous  array, 
Do  pay  a  tribute  at  the  lips  of  love. 

Though  but  the  footstool  of  a  royal  king, 

When  we  betray  and  trip  him  to  the  earth 

His  crown  doth  roll  beneath  us.     Horses  have  not 

Such  power  to  grace  their  lords  or  break  their  necks 

As  we,  for  we  add  passion  to  our  power." 


An  Unknown  Poet  129 

The  second  passage  referred  to  is  deeper  in 
thought  and  more  intricate  in  writing  than  any 
other  speech  in  the  play.  It  is  a  subtle  plea  in 
defence  of  inconstancy  in  women;  this  incon- 
stancy, as  governed  and  directed  by  art  and  prac- 
tical skill,  being  (in  the  speaker's  mind)  the 
substitute  for  that  laborious  singleness  of  heart 
and  devotion  of  the  will  to  bare  truth  which  make 
a  man  the  stronger  by  nature  of  the  two,  but 
which  a  woman  cannot  (it  is  argued)  attain  or 
retain  without  violating  her  nature  and  abdicating 
her  power  upon  man.  Truth  is  indeed  the  grand- 
est of  abstractions: — 

"Truth  is  sublime;  the  unique  excellence; 
The  height  of  wisdom,  the  supreme  of  power, 
The  principle  and  pivot  of  the  world, 
The  keystone  that  sustains  the  arched  heavens; 
And  Time,  the  fragment  of  Eternity, 
Eternity  itself,  but  fills  the  scale 
In  Truth's  untrembling  hand.     His  votaries 
Belong  to  him  entire,  not  he  to  them; 
The  immolation  must  be  all  complete, 
And  woman  still  makes  reservation. 

Our  feeling,  wench,  is  like  the  current  coin, 
No  counterfeit,  for  it  doth  bear  our  weight, 
The  perfect  image,  absolute,  enthroned; 
Now  the  king's  coin  belongs  to  many  men 
And  only  by  allowance  is  called  his ; 
Just  so  our  feeling  stands  with  circumstance." 

But  the  power  to  pierce  through  personal  thought 
to  absolute  truth,  the  "reasoning  imagination" 
proper  to  man, 


130  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

"Is  compromised  in  our  maternal  sex; 
Ours  is  a  present,  not  an  abstract  power." 

That  is  why  art  is  wanted  to  make  the  balance 
sway  back  to  the  woman's  side : 

"If  Art  and  Honesty  do  run  a  race, 
Which  tumbles  in  the  mire?  ask  those  that  starve. 

Therefore  since  Truth  requires  that  I  should  lay 
Me  prostrate  at  her  feet  and  worship  her 
Rather  than  wield  her  sceptre  and  her  power, 
I  shall  be  bold  to  follow  mine  own  way 
And  use  the  world  as  I  find  wit  and  means ; 
And  as  I  know  of  nothing  but  old  age, 
So  nothing  will  I  fear: — but  I  waste  words 
You  do  not  understand." 

She  then  turns  back  the  discourse  to  questions  of 
love,  handling  (as  it  were)  her  own  heart  deli- 
cately, and  weighing  beforehand  the  power  of  her 
senses  to  bear  pleasure. 

"The  sultry  hour  well  suits  occasion ; 
That  silk  of  gossamer  like  tawny  gold — 
Throw  it  on  loosely.  .  .  . 
See  to  the  neck;  fit  thou  some  tender  lace 
About  the  rim.     The  precious  jewel  shown 
But  scantily  is  oft  desired  most, 
And  tender  nets  scare  not  the  timid  bird. 
A  little  secret  is  a  tempting  thing 
Beyond  wide  truth's  confession.     Give  me  flowers 
That  I  may  hang  them  in  my  ample  hair; 
And  sprinkle  me  with  lavender  and  myrrh. 
Zone  me  around  with  a  broad  chain  of  gold 
And  wreath  my  arms  with  pearls.     So — this  will  do." 

Now  at  length,  after  all  this  noble  repose  of  prep- 


An  Unknown  Poet  131 

aration,  Joseph  enters  with  a  message  from  his 
master.     She  fastens  upon  him  at  once. 

"Phraxanor.  Put  that  to  rest. 

Give  me  that  golden  box,  there's  ointment  in  it. 
[She  spills  it  on  his  head. 
Joseph.     Madam,  what  must  I  say?     My  state  is  low, 

Yet  you  do  treat  me  as  you  might  my  lord 

When  he  besought  your  hand. 
Phraxanor.  Must  I  get  up 

And  cast  myself  in  your  sustaining  arms 

To  sink  you  to  a  seat? — Come,  sit — sit. 

Now  I  will  neighbour  you  and  tell  you  why 

I  cast  that  ointment  on  you. 
Joseph.  I  did  not 

Desire  it. 
Phraxanor.     You  asked  me  for  it. 
Joseph.  Madam  ? 

Phraxanor.     You  breathed  upon  me  as  you  did  advance, 

And  sweets  do  love  sweets  for  an  offering. 

My  breath  is  sweet  as  subtle,  yet  I  dared 

Not  put  my  lips  half  close  enough  to  thine 

To  render  back  the  favour:  so  I  say 

The  obligation  did  demand  as  much." 

This  scene  is  throughout  managed  with  such 
supreme  dexterity  that  one  overlooks  the  almost 
ludicrous  or  repellent  side  of  it,  for  which  Mr. 
Wells  is  not  responsible.  The  temptress  here  is 
not  repulsive,  and  the  hero  is  hardly  ridiculous. 

We  continue  our  task  of  inadequate  selection 
and  enforced  mutilation:  let  only  the  reader 
recollect  that  what  appears  here  rough  and  im- 
perfect is  in  the  original  smooth,  just,  and  com- 
plete. Every  precious  thing  here  given  is  forcibly 
wrenched  out  of  a  setting  not  less  precious. 


132  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

"Phraxanor.  Listen  to  me,  or  else 

I'll  set  my  little  foot  upon  thy  neck. 
...  A  poisoned  cup 

Might  curdle  all  the  features  of  thy  face, 
But  this  same  blandishment  upon  my  brow, 
Could  never  chase  the  colour  from  thy  cheeks. 

Contemptible  darkness  never  yet  did  dull 
The  splendour  of  love's  penetrating  light. 
At  love's  slight  curtains  that  are  made  of  sighs, 
Though  e'er  so  dark,  silence  is  seen  to  stand 
Like  to  a  flower  closed  in  the  night. 

Pulses  do  sound  quick  music  in  love's  ear, 

And  blended  fragrance  in  his  startled  breath 

Doth  hang  the  hair  with  drops  of  magic  dew. 

All  outward  thoughts,  all  common  circumstance, 

Are  buried  in  the  dimple  of  his  smile; 

And  the  great  city  like  a  vision  sails 

From  out  the  closing  doors  of  the  hushed  mind. 

His  heart  strikes  audibly  against  his  ribs 

As  a  dove's  wing  doth  freak  upon  a  cage, 

Forcing  the  blood  athro'  the  cramped  veins 

Faster  than  dolphins  do  o'ershoot  the  tide 

Coursed  by  the  yawning  shark.     Therefore,  I  say, 

Night-blooming  Ceres,  and  the  star-flower  sweet, 

The  honeysuckle,  and  the  eglantine, 

And  the  ring'd  vinous  tree  that  yields  red  wine, 

Together  with  all  intertwining  flowers, 

Are  plants  most  fit  to  ramble  o'er  each  other 

And  form  the  bower  of  all-precious  love, 

Shrouding  the  sun  with  fragrant  bloom  and  leaves 

From  jealous  interception  of  love's  gaze. 

Henceforth  I'll  never  knit  with  glossed  bone, 
But  interlace  my  fingers  around  thine, 
And  ravel  them,  and  interlace  again, 


An  Unknown  Poet  133 

So  that  no  work  that's  done  content  the  eye, 
That  I  may  never  weary  in  my  work. 

Beware !  you'll  crack  my  lace. 
Joseph.  You  will  be  hurt. 

Phraxanor.     O   for  some  savage  strength ! 
Joseph.  Away !     Away ! 

Phraxanor.     So  you  are  loose — I  pray  you  kill  me — do. 
Joseph.     Let  me  pass  out  at  door. 
Phraxanor.  I  have  a  mind 

You  shall  at  once  walk  with  those  honest  limbs 

Into  your  grave." 

The  quiet  heavy  malice  of  that  is  as  worthy  of 
Shakespeare  as  the  elaborate  and  faultless  music 
of  the  passage  on  love.  By  way  of  reply  to  all 
this  Joseph  sums  up  the  benefits  he  has  received 
at  the  hands  of  Potiphar;  ending  thus: 

"Madam!  this  man 
Into  whose  noble  and  confiding  breast 
I  will  not  thrust  a  vile  ensanguined  hand 
To  tear  from  thence  a  palpitating  heart, 
Is  your  most  honourable  lord  and  mine. 

[She  stamps  her  foot. 
Phraxanor.     Leap  to  thy  feet,  I  say,  unless  thou  wouldst 
Set  up  to  be  the  universal  fool. 

Thou  art  right  well  enamoured  of  this  lord — 
'My  lord' — 'my  lord' — canst  thou  not  ever  mouth 
That  word  distinctly  from  'my  lady'?  out  on 
'My  lord' !  he  surely  shall  be  paid  full  home 
That  honours  lords  above  a  lady's  love. 
Thou  hast  no  lord  but  me — I  am  thy  lord — 
And  thou  shalt  find  it  too;  fool  that  I  was 


134  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

To  stoop  my  stateliness  to  such  a  calf 
Because  he  bore  about  a  panther's  hide ! 

Were't  not  that  royalty  has  kissed  my  hand 

I'd  surely  strike  thee. 
Joseph.  Madam  !  be  temperate. 

Phraxanor.     Dost  thou  expect  to  live ! — 

Who  bade  thee  speak  ?  impudent  slave,  beware ! 

Thou  shalt  be  whipped.  .  .  . 

Disgrace  to  Egypt  and  her  burning  air ! 

Thou  shalt  not  stay  in  Egypt. 
Joseph.  I  grieve  at  that. 

Phraxanor.     I'm  changed.     Thou  shalt  stay  here — and  since 
I  see 

There  is  no  spirit  of  life  in  all  this  show, 

Only  a  cheat  unto  the  sanguine  eye, 

Thou  shalt  be  given  to  the  leech's  hands 

To  study  causes  on  thy  bloodless  heart 

Why  men  should  be  like  geese.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  These  knees, 

That  ne'er  did  bend  but  to  pluck  suitors  up 

And  put  them  out  of  hope — Oh,  I  am  mad ! 

These  feet  by  common  accident  have  trod 

On  better  necks  than  e'er  bowed  to  the  king, 

And  must  I  tie  them  in  a  band  of  list 

Before  a  slave  like  thee? 
Joseph.  Still  I  look  honestly. 

Phraxanor.     Thy  looks  are  grievous  liars,  like  my  eyes; 

They  juggled  me  to  think  thou  wert  a  man. 

If  seeming  make  men,  thou  art  one  indeed. 

Seeming,  forsooth !     Why,  what  hadst  thou  to  do, 

When  thou  might'st  feast  thy  lips  on  my  eye-lids, 

To  hang  thy  head  o'er  thy  left  shoulder  thus — 

Blinking  at  honesty?  .  .  . 

Thou  Honesty ! 

Show  me  thy  proper  pet,  that  when  one  such 


An  Unknown  Poet  185 

In  all  her  soberness  may  meet  my  eye, 
I  may  prepare  to  burn  her  with  my  gaze. 

Soft !  what  a  fool  am  I  to  rave  about ! 
I  have  mistook  my  passion  all  this  while; 
Thou  implement  of  honesty,  it  is 
Not  scorn  but  laughter  that  is  due  to  thee. 
I'll  keep  thee  as  an  antic,  that  when  dull 
Thou  may'st  kill  heavy  time. 

Dry  as  a  wild  boar's  tongue  in  honesty — 
And  yet  that  hath  an  essence  tending  to 
Its  savage  growth.     Thou  shock  of  beaten  corn! 
Thou  hollow  pit,  lacking  a  goodly  spring! 
Tempting  the  thirsty  soul  to  come  and  drink, 
Then  cheating  him  with  dust  and  barrenness — 
Thou  laughable  affectation  of  man's  form ! 
.  .  .  Are  all  those  Canaanites 
Like  you?  ha? 

Joseph.  An  they  were,  'twere  no  disgrace. 

Phraxanor.     I'll  prick  my  arm  and  they  shall  suck  the  blood 
To  make  men  of  them.  .  .  . 
Ah  thou  poor  temperate  and  drowsy  drone ! 
You  empty  glass !  you  balk  to  eyes,  lips,  hands ! 
Ha,  ha !  I  will  command  the  masons  straight 
Hew  you  in  stone  and  set  you  on  the  gate 
Hard  by  the  public  walk  where  dames  resort; 
Therein  you  shall  fool  more  admiring  eyes 
(A  plague  upon  these  embers  in  my  throat), 
For  you  fooled  mine,  and  I  like  company. 

Joseph.     You  do  me  bitter  wrong — unladylike — 
A  scourgeable,  a  scarlet-hooded  wrong, 
When  thus  you  pack  my  shoulders  with  your  shame. 

Phraxanor.     Ha !  have  I  touched  thee  ?  art  thou  sensible  ? 
I  prithee  do  not  fret,  my  pretty  lute, 
I  shall  shed  tears,  sweet  music,  if  thou  fret. 


136  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Thou  shalt  be  free  like  a  rare  charmed  snake 

To  range  a  woman's  secret  chamber  through. 

Here,  take  my  mantle,  gird  it  o'er  thy  loins, 

And  steep  thy  somewhat  browned  face  in  milk: 

I  have  a  sister,  a  young  tender  thing, 

To  her  I  will  prefer  thee,  a  she-squire, 

To  brace  her  garments  and  to  bleach  her  back 

With  sweet  of  almonds.     A  mere  parrot  thou, 

Tiring  her  idle  ear,  and  gaping  for 

An  almond  for  thy  pains.     O  thou  dull  snipe! 

Joseph.     This  may  be  well,  but  it  affects  not  me. 

Phraxanor.     O  madam !  do  not  fret — madam,  I  say ! 

Joseph.     O  peace !  you  pass  all  bounds  of  modesty. 

Phraxanor.     Pray  write  upon  thy  cap   'This  is  a  man'  — 
A  plague  and  the  pink  fever  fall  on  thee! 
I  am  thrown  out — thou'st  nettled  me  outright — 
Who  knocks  there?  wait  awhile,  the  door  is  fast: — 
Nay,  stand  thou  here,  I  will  not  let  thee  pass." 

It  would  be  impertinent  to  remark  on  the  mar- 
vellous grace  and  strength  of  all  this — the  subtle 
rapid  changes  of  passion,  the  life  and  heat  of  blood 
in  every  verse,  the  sublime  intense  power  of  con- 
tempt which  seems  to  make  the  written  words  bite 
and  burn,  the  swift  dramatic  unison  of  so  many 
sudden  and  sharp  fancies  of  wrath  with  the  aptest 
and  most  facile  expression.  Perhaps,  however, 
the  chief  success  is  still  behind ;  for  after  the  return 
of  Potiphar  it  must  have  been  a  labour  of  especial 
difficulty  to  keep  up  the  scene  at  the  same  pitch. 
Nevertheless,  the  writer's  power  never  flags  or 
falls  off  for  an  instant,  from  the  moment  when 
Phraxanor  turns  from  Joseph  towards  her  return- 
ing husband — 


An  Unknown  Poet  137 

"My  injuries  rejoice; 
I  turn  my  back  on  thee  as  on  the  dead. 
— Ah !  give  me  breath." 

The  picture  of  Joseph's  fidelity  is  as  fine  as  her 
invective : — 

"Your  trust  was  pure  as  silver,  bright  as  a  flame, 

Forged  in  your  equity,  fined  in  your  truth, 

Stubborn  in  honesty  as  stapled  iron : 

Your  charity  was  wise,  like  soaking  rain 

That  falleth  in  a  famine  on  that  ground 

That  hath  the  seed  locked  up.     So  far,  all  honour. 

Your  love  and  duty  to  my  lord  were  like 

A  mine  of  gold ;  but  out,  alas !  the  fault — 

You  fell  in  twain  like  to  a  rotten  plank 

When  he  was  tempted  in  to  count  his  wealth — 

There  was  no  bottom  to  %  he  broke  his  neck. 

— Will  you  praise  him,  my  honoured  lord? 
Potiphar.  Why  so? 

Phraxanor.     Because  he  never  must  be  praised  again." 

This  is  another  of  those  instances  of  reserve  which 
abound  in  Shakespeare  only.  Touches  like  these 
occur  in  Webster,  but  hardly  in  any  third  drama- 
tist. Cyril  Tourneur  perhaps  has  hit  here  and 
there  upon  something  of  the  same  effect. 

The  hesitation  of  Potiphar  to  believe  a  charge 
so  incongruous  as  that  laid  upon  Joseph  is  ad- 
mirably given;  not  less  admirable  is  the  explana- 
tion of  Phraxanor,  which  if  the  space  were  larger 
might  here  be  cited.  Joseph's  vindication  of  his 
father's  honour  from  the  taunts  of  both  wife  and 
husband  is  another  noble  and  quotable  passage; 
and    the    fierce    brief    inquisition    of    Phraxanor 


138  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

which  follows  it  is  as  dramatic  as  anything  in  the 
great  preceding  scene.  We  can  spare  space  but 
for  one  more  extract. 

"Joseph.     If  I  did  ever  wrong  thee  in  an  act, 
In  thought,  or  in  imagination, 
May  I  never  taste  bread  again.     Oh  God ! 
Try  me  not  thus:  my  infirmity  is  love; 
I  can  be  dumb  and  suffer,  but  must  speak 
When  there's  a  strife  of  love  between  two  hearts. 

Phraxanor.     Ha,  thou  still  wear'st  thy  heart  upon  thy  tongue 
And  paint'st  the  raven  white  with  cunning  words: 
Slave,  thou  art  over-bold,  because  thou  think'st 
The  grossness  of  thine  outrage  seals  my  lips: 
But  thou  shalt  be  deceived;  behold  this  chain: 
Say,  did  it  fall  in  twain  of  its  own  weight, 
Or  was  it  broken  by  thy  violence? 
Speak — liar.  [She  plucks  him  by  the  beard. 

Joseph.  Madam,  try  rather  at  my  heart. 

Potiphar.     Phraxanor,  you  forget  your  dignity. 

Phraxanor.     My  lord,  my  indented  lips  still  taste  of  his: 
Myrah,  bring  water  here  and  wash  my  hand — 
It  is  offended  by  this  leprous  slave. 

Potiphar.     How  dar'st  thou  do  as  thou  hast  been  accused? 

Phraxanor.     Thou  hast  denied  me;  what  hast  thou  to  say? 

Phraxanor.     Put  him  to  that;  aye,  let  him  answer  that. 

Joseph.     I  am  like  a  simple  dove  within  a  net, 
The  more  I  strive,  the  faster  I  am  bound. 
My  wit  is  plain  and  straight,  not  crooked  craft; 
The  sight  that  reaches  heaven  tires  in  a  lane. 

Phraxanor.     You  will  not  answer;  'tis  the  strangest  knave 
I  ever  met  or  heard  of  in  my  time." 

Baited    thus,    he    turns    upon    her    at    last,    and 
avows — 

"She  would  have  tempted  me,  but  I  refused 
To  heap  up  pain  on  my  so  honoured  lord. 


An  Unknown  Poet  139 

Phraxanor.     Ha,  ha!  there  is  your  steward,  'honoured  lord' — 
His  masterpiece  of  wit  is  shown  at  last. 
Ha,  ha !  I  pray  you  now  take  no  offence, 
But  let  him  go,  and  slip  your  slight  revenge. 
Now  that  the  man  is  known  I  have  no  fear. 
Thus  cunning  ever  spoileth  its  own  hatch — 
Doth  it  not,  steward  ?     Hold  him  still  in  trust — 
But  for  this  fault  he  were  a  worthy  man. 

Steward,  farewell; 
For  ever  fare  you  well;  and  learn  this  truth — 
When  women  are  disposed  to  wish  you  well 
Do  not  you  trespass  on  their  courtesy, 
Lest  in  their  deep  resentment  you  lie  drowned 
As  now  you  do  in  mine.     I  leave  you,  sir, 
Without  a  single  comfort  in  the  world.  [Exit. 

Joseph.     God  is  in  heaven,  madam!  with  your  leave." 

From  this  departure  of  Phraxanor  to  the  end  of 
the  play,  the  interest  of  it  is  rather  in  the  poet's 
power  of  workmanship  than  in  the  subject-matter; 
as  indeed  could  not  but  be,  taking  into  account  the 
reaction  which  must  follow  on  such  scenes  as  those 
in  the  house  of  Potiphar.  Here  therefore  we  close 
our  labour  of  extraction;  although  passages  of  ex- 
cellent effect  might  be  taken  from  any  of  the  later 
scenes.  The  famine  in  Canaan,  the  triumphal 
procession  of  "the  swart  Pharaoh  full  of  majesty," 
and  finally  the  advent  of  Jacob,  are  all  given  with 
that  admirable  vigour  proper  to  this  great  poet; 
and  further  stray  lines  and  sentences  of  perfect 
worth  might  be  picked  out  and  strung  together  till 
half  the  book  were  transcribed. 

This  is  no  part  of  our  task.  By  the  specimens 
we  have  already  brought  in  evidence  it  may  now 
be  judged  how  far  this  play,  taken  at  its  highest, 


140  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

falls  short  of  the  world's  chief  dramatic  achieve- 
ments. What  its  author  might  have  done  had  his 
genius  found  space  to  work  in  and  students  to 
work  for,  no  one  can  say.  It  may  be  that  only 
the  supine  and  stertorous  dullness  of  fashion  and 
accident  has  kept  out  of  sight  a  poet  who  was 
meant  to  take  his  place  among  the  highest. 


VIII 
JOHN  NICHOL'S  "HANNIBAL" 
1872 


JOHN  NICHOL'S  "HANNIBAL'' » 

THE  historic  or  epic  drama,  as  perhaps  we 
might  more  properly  call  it,  is  assuredly 
one  of  the  hardest  among  the  highest 
achievements  of  poetry.  The  mere 
scope  or  range  of  its  aim  is  so  vast,  so  various,  so 
crossed  and  perplexed  by  diverse  necessities  and 
suggestions  starting  from  different  points  of  view, 
that  the  simple  intellectual  difficulty  is  enough  to 
appal  and  repel  any  but  the  most  laborious  servants 
of  the  higher  Muse;  and  to  this  is  added  the  one 
supreme  necessity  of  all — to  vivify  the  whole  mass 
of  mere  intellectual  work  with  imaginative  fire; 
to  kindle  and  supple  and  invigorate  with  poetic 
blood  and  breath  the  inert  limbs,  the  stark  lips 
and  empty  veins  of  the  naked  subject:  a  task  in 
which  the  sculptor  who  fails  of  himself  to  give  his 
statue  life  will  find  no  favouring  god  to  help  him 
by  inspiration  or  infusion  from  without  of  an  alien 
and  miraculous  vitality.  In  this  case  Pygmalion 
must  look  to  himself  for  succour,  and  put  his  trust 
in  no  hand  but  his  own. 

There  are  two  ways  in  which  a  poet  may  treat 
a  historic  subject:  one,  that  of  Marlowe  and 
Shakespeare,  in  the  fashion  of  a  dramatic  chroni- 
cle; one,  that  of  the  greatest  of  all  later  drama- 
tists, who  seizes  on  some  point  of  historic  tradition, 

i  Hannibal:  a  Historical  Drama.     By  JOHN  NICHOL.     Glasgow: 
Maclehose.     London:  Macmillan. 

143 


144  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

some  character  or  event  proper  or  possible  to  the 
time  chosen,  be  it  actual  or  ideal,  and  starting 
from  this  point  takes  his  way  at  his  will,  and  from 
this  seed  or  kernel  develops  as  it  were  by  evolution 
the  whole  fabric  of  his  poem.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  which  method  of  treatment  requires  the 
higher  and  the  rarer  faculty;  to  throw  into  poetic 
form  and  imbue  with  dramatic  spirit  the  whole 
body  of  an  age,  the  whole  character  of  a  great 
event  or  epoch,  by  continuous  reproduction  of  his- 
toric circumstance  and  exposition  of  the  recorded 
argument  scene  by  scene;  or  to  carve  out  of  the 
huge  block  of  history  and  chronicle  some  detached 
group  of  ideal  figures,  and  give  them  such  form 
and  colour  of  imaginative  life  as  may  seem  best 
to  you.  In  some  of  the  greatest  plays  of  Victor 
Hugo  there  is  hardly  more  than  a  nominal  con- 
nection perceptible  at  first  sight  with  historical 
character  or  circumstance.  In  Marion  de  Lo?'me, 
Richelieu  is  an  omnipresent  shadow,  a  spectral 
omnipotence;  Mary  Tudor  was  never  convicted 
before  any  tribunal  but  the  poet's  of  any  warmer 
weakness  than  the  religious  faith  which  had  heat 
enough  only  to  consume  other  lives  than  her  own 
in  other  flames  than  in  those  of  illicit  love;  and 
Lucrezia  Estense  Borgia  died  peaceably  in  lawful 
childbed,  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  her  fourth  mar- 
riage. Nevertheless,  these  great  works  belong 
properly  to  the  class  of  historical  drama;  they 
have  in  them  the  breath  and  spirit  of  the  chosen 
age,  and  the  life  of  their  time  informs  the  chosen 
types  of  ideal  character.     The  Cromwell  of  Hugo, 


John  Nichol's  "Hannibal"  145 

in  his  strength  and  weakness,  his  evil  and  his  good, 
is  as  actual  and  credible  a  human  figure  as  the 
Cromwell  of  Carlyle,  whether  or  not  we  accept  as 
probable  or  possible  matter  of  historic  fact  the 
alloy  of  baser  metal  which  we  here  see  mingled 
with  the  fine  gold  of  heroic  intellect  and  action. 
He  who  can  lay  hold  of  truth  need  fear  no  charge 
of  falsehood  in  his  free  dealing  with  mere  fact; 
and  this  first  play  of  Hugo's,  in  my  mind  the  most 
wonderful  intellectual  production  of  any  poet  on 
record  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  is  with  all  its 
license  of  invention  and  diversion  of  facts,  an  ex- 
ample throughout  of  perfect  poetic  truth  and  life. 
It  is  to  the  former  school — to  the  school  founded, 
in  his  Edward  II.,  by  the  great  father  of  English 
tragedy — that  we  have  now  to  welcome  the  acces- 
sion of  a  new  and  a  worthy  disciple.     In  this  large 
and  perilous  field  of  work  the  labourers  of  any  note 
or  worth  have  been  few  indeed.     Except  for  the 
one  noble  drama  in  which  Ford  has  embodied  a 
brief  historic  episode,  the  field  has  lain  fallow  from 
the  age  of  Shakespeare  to  our  own;  and  our  own 
has  produced  but  one  workman  equal  to  the  task; 
for  even  the  single  attempt  of  Mr.  Browning  in 
the   line   of   pure   historic   drama   can   hardly   be 
counted  as   successful  enough   to   rank  with  the 
master  poem  of  Sir  Henry  Taylor.     Nor  indeed 
are  we  likely  to  see  the  work  in  this  kind  which 
for  intellectual  majesty  and  interest,  for  large  and 
serene  possession  of  character  and  event,  for  grasp 
and  mastery  of  thought  and  action,  may  deserve 
to  be  matched  against  Philip  van  Artevelde.     But 


146  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

it  is  to  the  same  class  of  "chronicle  history,"  to  use 
the  Shakespearian  term  of  definition,  that  Mr. 
Nichol's  drama  of  Hannibal  must  properly  be  as- 
signed. The  daring  and  magnitude  of  the  design 
would  alone  suffice  to  make  it  worthy  of  note,  even 
were  the  success  accomplished  less  real  than  we 
find  it  to  be.  The  man  who  attempts  in  an  age 
of  idyllic  poetry  to  write  a  heroic  poem,  or  to  write 
a  dramatic  poem  in  an  age  of  analytic  verse,  de- 
serves at  least  the  credit  due  to  him  who  sees  and 
knows  the  best  and  highest,  and  strives  to  follow 
after  it  with  all  his  heart  and  might.  For  the 
higher  school  of  intellectual  poetry  must  always 
of  its  nature  be  dramatic  and  heroic;  these  are 
assuredly  the  highest  and  the  best  things  of  art, 
and  not  the  delicacies  or  intricacies  of  the  idyllic 
or  the  analytic  school  of  writing.  The  two  chief 
masters  of  song  are  the  dramatist  and  the  lyrist; 
and  in  the  higher  lyric  as  well  as  in  the  higher 
drama  the  note  sounded  must  have  in  it  some- 
thing of  epic  or  heroic  breath. 

But  we  find  here  much  more  than  breadth  of 
scheme  or  courage  of  design  to  praise.  The  main 
career  of  Hannibal  down  to  the  battle  of  the 
Metaurus  is  traced  scene  after  scene  in  large  and 
vigorous  outline;  and  for  the  action  and  reaction 
of  dramatic  intrigue  we  have  the  simpler  epic  in- 
terest of  the  harmonious  succession  of  great  sep- 
arate events.  Throughout  the  exposition  of  this 
vast  subject,  as  act  upon  act  of  that  heroic  and 
tragic  poem,  the  life  of  one  man  weighed  against 
the  world  and  found  all  but  able  to  overweigh  it, 


John  Nichol's  "Hannibal"  147 

is  unrolled  before  us  on  the  scroll  of  historic  song, 
there  is  a  high  spirit  and  ardour  of  thought  which 
sustains  the  scheme  of  the  poet,  and  holds  on 
steadily  through  all  change  of  time  and  place,  all 
diversity  of  incident  and  effect,  toward  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  general  aim.  The  worth  of  a 
poem  of  this  kind  cannot  of  course  be  gauged  by 
any  choice  of  excerpts;  if  it  could,  that  worth 
would  be  little  indeed.  For  in  this  mixed  kind  of 
art  something  more  and  other  than  poetic  fancy 
or  even  than  high  imagination  is  requisite  for  suc- 
cess; the  prime  necessity  is  that  shaping  force  of 
intellect  which  can  grasp  and  mould  its  subject 
without  strain  and  without  relaxation.  This 
power  of  composition  is  here  always  notable. 
Simple  as  is  the  structure  of  a  "chronicle  history," 
it  calls  for  no  less  exercise  of  this  rare  and  noble 
gift  than  is  needed  for  the  manipulation  of  an 
elaborate  plot  or  fiction.  It  is  in  this,  the  most 
important  point  of  all,  that  we  find  the  work  done 
most  deserving  of  our  praise. 

On  a  stage  so  vast  and  crowded,  in  a  scheme 
embracing  so  many  years  and  agents,  the  greater 
number  of  the  multitudinous  actors  who  figure  in 
turn  before  us  cannot  of  course  be  expected  to 
show  any  marked  degree  of  elaboration  in  the  out- 
line of  their  various  lineaments ;  but  however  slight 
or  swift  in  handling,  the  touch  of  the  draughtsman 
is  never  indistinct  or  feeble ;  Roman  and  Carthagin- 
ian, wise  man  and  unwise,  heroic  and  unheroic, 
pass  each  on  his  way  with  some  recognisable  and 
rememberable  sign  of  identity.     Upon  one  figure 


148  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

alone  besides  that  of  his  hero  the  author  has  ex- 
pended all  his  care  and  power.  Of  this  one  ideal 
character  the  conception  is  admirable,  and  worthy 
of  the  hand  of  a  great  poet ;  nor  does  the  execution 
of  the  design  fail,  as  it  proceeds,  to  repay  our  hope 
and  interest  at  starting.  Here  as  elsewhere  the 
requisite  hurry  of  action  and  conflict  of  crowding 
circumstance  forbid  any  subtle  or  elaborate  analy- 
sis of  detail;  but  in  a  few  scenes  and  with  a  few 
strokes  the  figure  of  Fulvia  stands  before  us  com- 
plete. From  the  slight  and  straggling  traditions 
of  Hannibal's  luxurious  entanglement  in  Capua, 
Mr.  Nichol  has  taken  occasion  to  create  a  fresh 
and  memorable  type  of  character,  and  give  colour 
and  variety  to  the  austere  and  martial  action  of 
his  poem  by  an  episode  of  no  inharmonious  pas- 
sion. To  no  vulgar  "harlot"  such  as  Pliny  speaks 
of  has  he  permitted  his  hero  to  bow  down.  The 
revolted  Roman  maiden  who  casts  her  life  into  the 
arms  of  her  country's  enemy  is  a  mistress  not  un- 
worthy of  Hannibal.  From  the  first  fiery  glimpse 
of  her  active  and  passionate  spirit  to  the  last  cry 
of  triumph  which  acclaims  the  consummation  of 
her  love  in  death,  we  find  no  default  or  flaw  in  the 
noble  conception  of  her  creator.  At  her  coming 
into  the  poem 

"She  makes  a  golden  tumult  in  the  house 
Like  morning  on  the  hills;" 

and  the  resolute  consistency  which  maintains  and 
vindicates  her  passion  and  her  freedom  is  through- 
out at  once  natural  and  heroic. 

We  have  not  time  to  enlarge  further  on  the 


John  Nichol's  "Hannibal"  149 

scope  or  the  details  of  the  poem,  on  its  merits  of 
character  and  language,  its  qualities  of  thought 
and  emotion.  We  will  only  refer,  for  one  instance 
among  others  of  clear  and  vigorous  description, 
to  the  account  of  the  passage  of  the  Alps — 

"peaks  that  rose  in  storm 
To  hold  the  stars,  or  catch  the  morn,  or  keep 
The  evening  with  a  splendour  of  regret; 

On  dawn-swept  heights  the  war-cry  of  the  winds, 
The  wet  wrath  round  the  steaming  battlements, 
From  which  the  sun  leapt  upward,  like  a  sword 
Drawn  from  its  scabbard;" 

and  for  one  example  of  not  less  simple  or  less 
forcible  drawing  of  character,  to  the  sketch  of 
Archimedes,  slain  in  the  mid  passion  and  pos- 
session of  science;  to  which  the  homage  here  studi- 
ously paid  by  the  dramatist  who  pauses  on  his 
rapid  way  to  do  it  reverence  will  recall  the 
honoured  name  of  that  father  to  whose  memory 
the  poem  is  inscribed.  As  an  offering  worthy  of 
such  a  name,  we  receive  with  all  welcome  this 
latest  accession  to  the  English  school  of  historic 
drama. 


IX 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  THE  WORKS  OF 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

BY  EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  THE  WORKS  OF 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

BY  EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 

N.  B. — This  bibliography  aims  to  include  a 
record  of  all  important  editions  of  Swinburne's 
books  and  also  of  all  his  contributions  to 
periodical  literature  which  have  not  been  subse- 
quently reprinted.  It  is  hoped,  but  hardly  ex- 
pected, that  this  list  is  complete.  At  any  rate,  it 
is  much  more  full  than  the  bibliographies  of  Shep- 
herd and  Nicoll  and  Wise.  For  a  more  detailed 
description  of  bibliographical  rarities,  the  reader 
is  referred  to  the  latter  bibliography. — E.  J.  O. 

1857. 
(1).  William    Congreve.     The    Imperial    Dic- 
tionary of  Universal  Biography.     Edited 
by  John  Francis  Waller,  LL.D.     Lon- 
don, 1857.     p.  979. 
1858. 
(2).  Undergraduate       Papers.     Oxford      and 
London:     1857-1858. 

(Swinburne  contributed  the  following 

four  articles  to  this  volume. 

(a.)   The  Early  English  Dramatists. — 

No.    1.    Marlow    and    Webster,    pp. 

7-15. 

(b.)   Queen  Yseult.     Canto  i.    "Of  the 

153 


154  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

birth  of  Sir  Tristram,  and  how  he  voy- 
aged into  Ireland.3'    pp.  £1-50. 
(c.)   The  Monomaniac's  Tragedy,  and 

Other  Poems,     pp.  97-102. 
(d.)   Church    Imperialism.       pp.     134- 
137.) 

1860. 
(3).  The  Queen  Mother.  Rosamond.  Two 
Plays.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Basil  Montagu  Pick- 
ering. 1860. 
(4).  The  Queen  Mother  and  Rosamond.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Edward  Moxon  and  Co.     1860. 

1862. 
(5).  Mr.    George    Meredith's    Modern    Love. 
(A  Letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  Specta- 
tor.)    The    Spectator.     June    7,    1862. 
Vol.  xxxv.  pp.  632-633. 
Reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 
(6).  Charles  Baudelaire:  Les  Fleurs  Du  Mai. 
The    Spectator.     Sept.    6,    1862.     Vol. 
xxxv.  pp.  998-1000. 
Reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 

1864. 
(7).  Dead  Love.     By  Algernon  C.  Swinburne. 
London:    John    W.    Parker    and    Son, 
West  Strand.     1864. 

Reprinted  from  Once-a-Week,  vol. 
vii.  pp.  432-434,  October,  1862,  where 
it  was  accompanied  by  a  drawing  by  M. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     155 

J.  Lawless.  The  story  is  reprinted  in 
the  present  volume. 
(8).  The  Children  of  the  Chapel.  A  Tale.  By 
the  Author  of  The  Chorister  Brothers, 
Mark  Dennis,  etc.  [Mrs.  Disney 
Leith.]     London:  1864. 

From  this  volume  we  have  extracted 
"A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure"  as  being 
almost  certainly  the  work  of  Swinburne. 
In  this  opinion  we  follow  Mr.  Thomas 
B.  Mosher,  and  in  large  measure  the 
authority  of  Messrs.  Nicoll  and  Wise. 
1865. 
(9).  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  A  Tragedy.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Edward  Moxon  and  Co.  1865. 
Small  4to. 

(10).  Ditto.  Second  Edition.  Same  year. 
Post  8vo. 

(11).  Chastelard.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Edward 
Moxon  and  Co.  1865. 

(12).  Gentle  Spring.       (Sonnet).     The    Royal 
Academy  Catalogue.  1865.    p.  20. 
1866. 

(13).  A  Selection  from  the  Works  of  Lord 
Byron.  Edited  and  Prefaced  by  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Ed- 
ward Moxon  and  Co.  1866. 

(14).  The  Queen  Mother  and  Rosamond.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
John  Camden  Hotten.  1866. 


156  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

(15).  Chastelard.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  John 
Camden  Hotten.  1866. 

(16).  Laus  Veneris.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Edward  Moxon 
and  Co.  1866. 

(17).  Poems  and  Ballads.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Edward 
Moxon  and  Co.  1866. 

(18).  Poems  and  Ballads.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  John 
Camden  Hotten.  1866. 

Hotten  published  a  second  edition  of 
the  book  in  the  same  year,  and  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  detect  it  from  the  first  edition. 

(19).  Laus  Veneris,  and  other  Poems  and  Bal- 
lads. By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 
New       York:       Carleton,       Publisher. 

MDCCCLXVI. 

(20).  Notes  on  Poems  and  Reviews.  By  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.  London:  John 
Camden  Hotten.     1866. 

(21).  Ditto.  Second  edition.  Same  title-page. 
1866. 

(22).  Cleopatra.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  John  Camden  Hotten. 
1866. 

Reprinted  from  the  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine, but  not  included  in  any  authorised 
edition  of  the  poet's  works.  Reprinted 
in  "Felise:  A  Book  of  Lyrics."  Port- 
land: T.  B.  Mosher.     1894. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     157 

(23).  Speech  in  Reply  to  the  Toast  The  Imag- 
inative Literature  of  England.  Report 
of  the  77th  Anniversary  Dinner  of  the 
Royal  Literary  Fund.     1866.     p.  27. 

1867. 

(24).  Dolores.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  John  Camden  Hotten. 
1867. 

(25).  A  Song  of  Italy.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  John  Camden 
Hotten.     1867. 

(26).  An  Appeal  to  England  against  the  Exe- 
cution of  the  Condemned  Fenians.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Man- 
chester: Reprinted  from  the  Morning 
Star.     1867. 

1868. 

(27).  William  Blake.  A  Critical  Essay.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
John  Camden  Hotten.     1868. 

(28).  Notes  on  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibition, 
1868.  Part  I.  By  William  Michael 
Rossetti.  Part  II.  By  Algernon  C. 
Swinburne.  London:  John  Camden 
Hotten.     1868. 

(29).  Siena.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  John  Camden  Hotten. 
1868. 

Only  six  copies  were  printed.  There 
was  a  second  or  spurious  edition  printed 
with  the  same  title-page  in  the  same  year. 


158  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

1869. 

(30).  Christabel  and  the  Lyrical  and  Imagina- 
tive Poems  of  S.  T.  Coleridge.  Ar- 
ranged and  Introduced  by  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Sampson 
Low.     1869. 

(31).  Editors  sub-edited.  The  Athenaeum. 
Oct.  9,  1869.     p.  463. 

(32) .  Victor  Hugo  and  English  Anonyms.  The 
Daily  Telegraph.  Oct.  22,  1869.  p.  5. 
col.  6. 

1870. 

(33).  Ode  on  the  Proclamation  of  the  French 
Republic.     September    4th,    1870.     By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.     London: 
F.  S.  Ellis.     1870. 
1871. 

(34).  Songs  Before  Sunrise.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  F.  S. 
Ellis.     1871. 

(35).  Pleasure:  A  Holiday  Book  of  Prose  and 
Verse.  London:  Henry  S.  King  and 
Co.     1871. 

Includes  Tristram  and  Iseult:  Pre- 
lude of  an  Unfinished  Poem.  By  Swin- 
burne,    pp.  4-5-52. 

(36).  Simeon  Solomon:  Notes  on  his  Vision  of 
Love,    and    other    Studies.     The    Dark 
Blue.     Vol.  i.  pp.  568-577.     July,  1871. 
Reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 
1872. 

(37).  Under     the     Microscope.     By    Algernon 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     159 

Charles      Swinburne.  London:      D. 

White.     1872. 

(38).  Mr.  John  Nichol's  Hannibal:  A  Historical 
Drama.     Fortnightly  Review,  n.s.  Vol. 
xii.  pp.  751-753.     December,  1872. 
Reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 

(39).  Le  Tombeau  de  Theophile  Gautier. 
Paris:  Alphonse  Lemerre.  mdcccl- 
xxiii. 

Swinburne  contributed  six  poems,  jive 
of  which  have  been  reprinted.  The 
sixth  consists  of  56  Greek  verses  on  pp. 
170-172. 

(40).  Chastelard.  Tragodie  von  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  Deutsch  von  Oskar 
Horn.  Bremen,  1873.  Verlag  von  T. 
Kuhtmann's  Buchhandlung. 

(41).  Mr.  Swinburne's  Sonnets  in  The  Exam- 
iner. The  Spectator.  May  31,  1873. 
Vol.  xlvi.  p.  697. 

(42).  Christianity   and   Imperialism.     The   Ex- 
aminer.    June  7,  1873.     pp.  585-586. 
1874. 

(43).  Bothwell.     A      Tragedy.     By     Algernon 
Charles     Swinburne.     London:    Chatto 
and  Windus.     1874. 
1875. 

(44).  George  Chapman.  Works  .  .  .  Poems 
and  Minor  Translations.  With  an  in- 
troduction by  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Chatto  and  Windus. 
1875. 


160  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 


(45 
(46 

(47 


(48 
(49 
(50 
(51 

(52 
(53 
(54 

(55 


.  George  Chapman:  A  Critical  Essay.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Chatto  and  Windus.     1875. 

.  Bothwell.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  In  Two  Volumes. 
London:  Chatto  and  Windus.     1875. 

.  Songs  of  Two  Nations.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  I.  A  Song  of 
Italy.  II.  Ode  on  the  Proclamation 
of  the  French  Republic.  III.  Dirge. 
London:  Chatto  and  Windus.     1875. 

.  Essays  and  Studies.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1875. 

.  Auguste  Vacquerie.  Par  Swinburne. 
(In  French).  Paris:  Michel  Levy, 
Freres.     1875. 

.  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  A  Tragedy.  A 
New  Edition.  London:  Chatto  and 
Windus.     1875. 

.  An   Unknown   Poet.        The   Fortnightly 
Review,  n.  s.  Vol.  xvii.  p.  217.     Febru- 
ary, 1875. 
Reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 

.  Mr.  Swinburne  and  his  Critics.  The 
Examiner.     April  10,  1875.     p.  408. 

.  The  Suppression  of  Vice.  The  Athen- 
aeum.    May  29,  1875.     p.  720. 

.  Epitaph  on  a  Slanderer.  (Verses.)  The 
Examiner.     Nov.  20,  1875.     p.  1304. 

.  The  Devil's  Due.  The  Examiner.  Dec. 
11,  1875.     p.  1388. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     161 

(56).  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica.  Ninth  Edition.  Vol.  iii. 
Edinburgh:  A.  and  C.  Black.  1875. 
pp.  469-474. 

1876. 

(57).  Erechtheus.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1876. 

(58).  Note  of  an  English  Republican  on  the 
Muscovite  Crusade.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1876. 

(59).  Charles  Jeremiah  Wells.  Joseph  and  His 
Brethren.  A  Dramatic  Poem.  With 
an  Introduction  by  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Chatto  and  Win- 
dus.    1876. 

This  introduction  is  reprinted  with 
changes  and  omissions  from  an  article 
in  the  Fortnightly  Review  of  the  pre- 
ceding year.  In  the  present  volume, 
these  omissions  are  restored. 

(60).  A  Discovery.  The  Athenaeum.  Jan.  15, 
1876.     p.  87. 

(61).  "King  Henry  VIII.,"  and  the  Ordeal  by 
Metre.  The  Academy.  Jan.  15,  1876. 
Vol.  ix.  pp.  53-55. 

(62).  Sir  Henry  Taylor's  Lyrics.  The  Acad- 
emy.    Jan.  29,  1876.     Vol.  ix.  p.  98. 

(63).  Charles  Lamb's  Letters  to  Godwin.  The 
Athenaeum.     May  13,   1876.     p.  664. 

(64).  Mr.  Forman's  Edition  of   Shelley.     The 


162  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Academy.      Nov.    25,    1876.      Vol.    x. 
p.  520. 

(65) .  George  Chapman.  The  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica.  Ninth  Edition.  Edin- 
burgh: A.  and  C.  Black.  1876.  Vol. 
v.  pp.  396-397. 

1877. 

(66).  A  Note  on  Charlotte  Bronte.  By  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Chatto  and  Windus.     1877. 

(67).  Edgar  Allan  Poe:  A  Memorial  Volume. 
By  Sara  Sigourney  Rice.  Baltimore: 
Turnbull  Brothers.     1877. 

Contains    in    facsimile    a    letter    ad- 
dressed by  Mr.  Swinburne  to  Miss  Bice. 

(68) .  The  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale."  The  Athen- 
aeum.    Jan.  27,  1877.     p.  117. 

(69).  "Poems  and  Ballads."  The  Athenaeum. 
Mar.  10,  1877.     pp.  319-320. 

(70).  "Poems  and  Ballads."  The  Athenaeum. 
Mar.  24,  1877.     p.  383. 

(71).  "The  Court  of  Love."  The  Athenaeum. 
Apr.  14,  1877.     pp.  481-482. 

(72).  Note  on  a  Question  of  the  Hour.  The 
Athenaeum.     June  16,  1877.     p.  768. 

(73).  Note  on  the  words  "irremeable"  and  "per- 
durable." Pall  Mall  Gazette.  July 
15,  1877. 

(74).  Last  Words  of  the  "Agamemnon."     The 
Athenaeum.     Nov.    10,    1877.     p.    597. 
1878. 

(75).  Poems     and     Ballads.         By     Algernon 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     163 

Charles    Swinburne.     London:    Chatto 
and  Windus.     1878. 

Poems  and  Ballads.  Second  Series.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Chatto  and  Windus.     1878. 

Atalanta  in  Calydon.  Eine  Tragodie  von 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Deutsch 
von  Albrecht  Graf  Wickenburg.  Wien: 
Verlag  von  L.  Rosner.     1878. 

"Love,  Death,  and  Reputation."  The 
Athenaeum.     Feb.  2,  1878.     p.   156. 

Note    on    a    Passage    of    Shelley.     The 
Athenaeum.     Feb.  9,  1878.     p.  188. 
1880. 

A  Study  of  Shakespeare.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1880. 

Songs  of  the  Springtides.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1880. 

Specimens  of  Modern  Poets.  The  Hepta- 
logia,  or  The  Seven  against  Sense.  A 
Cap  with  Seven  Bells.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1880. 

Studies  in  Song.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Chatto  and  Win- 
dus.    1880. 

William  Collins.  The  English  Poets. 
Selections,  with  Critical  Introductions 
by  various  writers,  edited  by  Thomas 
Humphry  Ward.  London:  Macmillan 
and  Co.     1880.     Vol.  iii.  p.  278. 


164  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

(85).  Mr.  Swinburne's  "Study  of  Shakes- 
peare." The  Academy.  Jan.  10,  1880. 
Vol.  xvii.  p.  28. 

(86).  Letter  to  the  Editor.  The  Academy. 
July  3,  1880.  Vol.  xviii.  p.  9. 

(87).  On  a  Passage  in  Lord  Beaconsfield's 
"Endymion."  (In  French.)  The  Pall 
Mall  Gazette.    Dec.  6,  1880. 

1881. 

(88).  Mr.  Swinburne's  New  Volume.  The 
Academy.  Jan.  15,  1881.  Vol.  xix. 
p.  46. 

(89).  Thomas  Carlyle.  (In  French.)  Le 
Rappel.     Paris.     19  Fevrier,  1881. 

(90).  Seven  Years  Old.  (Poem.)  The  Athen- 
aeum.    Aug.  20,  1881.     pp.  238-239. 

(91).  Disgust:  A  Dramatic  Monologue.  Fort- 
nightly Review,  n.  s.  vol.  xxx.  pp.  715- 
717.     December,  1881. 

A  parody  on  Tennyson's  poem,  "De- 
spair: A  Dramatic  Monologue."  Not 
reprinted  by  the  author. 

(92).  Mary  Stuart.  A  Tragedy.  By  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Chatto  and  Windus.     1881. 

1882. 

(93).  Ode  a  la  Statue  de  Victor  Hugo.  Par 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Traduc- 
tion de  Tola  Dorian.  Paris:  Alphonse 
Lemerre.     1882. 

(94).  Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  and  Other  Poems. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne    165 

By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.     Lon- 
don: Chatto  and  Windus.     1882. 
1883. 
(95).  A   Century   of   Roundels.     By  Algernon 
Charles    Swinburne.     London:    Chatto 
and  Windus.     1883. 
(96).  A  Coincidence.       The  Athenaeum.     Mar. 

10,  1883.     p.  314. 
(97).  La    Question    Irlandaise.       Le    Rappel. 

Paris.     26  Mars,  1883. 
(98).  Letter  to  the  Editor.     Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

Dec.  28,  1883.     p.  3. 
(99).  Les  Cenci.     Drame  de  Shelley.     Traduc- 
tion de  Tola  Dorian,  avec  Preface  de 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne.     Paris: 
Alphonse  Lemerre.     1883. 
1884. 
(100).  A  Midsummer  Holiday  and  Other  Poems. 
By      Algernon      Charles      Swinburne. 
London:  Chatto  and  Windus,  1884. 
(101).   Steele     or     Congreve?     (Four     letters.) 
The  Spectator.     Mar.  29,  Apr.   5,   12, 
26,  1884.     Vol.  lvii.  pp.  411,  441,  486, 
550. 

1885. 
(102).  Marino    Faliero.     A    Tragedy.     By    Al- 
gernon    Charles     Swinburne.     London: 
Chatto  and  Windus.     1885. 
1886. 
(103).  A  Study  of  Victor  Hugo.     By  Algernon 
Charles    Swinburne.     London:    Chatto 
and  Windus.     1886. 


166  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

(104).  Miscellanies.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Chatto  and  Windus. 
1886. 

(105).  Sultan  Stork  and  Other  Stories  and 
Sketches  by  William  Makepeace  Thack- 
eray. Now  first  collected.  London: 
George  Redway.     1887.     [1886.] 

Includes  two  letters  from  Swinburne 
on  "Thackeray  and  Fraser's  Magazine'' 
printed  in  the  introduction. 

(106).  The  Best  Hundred  Books.  (Two  let- 
ters.) The  Pall  Mall  Gazette.  Jan. 
26,  27,  1886. 

(107).  The  Literary  Record  of  the  Quarterly 
Review.  (Two  letters.)  The  Athen- 
aeum. Nov.  6,  20,  1886.  pp.  600-601, 
671. 

1887. 

(108).  Locrine:  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1887. 

(109).  A  Word  for  the  Navy.  A  Poem  by  Al- 
gernon Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Charles  Ottley,  Landon,  and  Co.     1887. 

(110).  A  Word  for  the  Navy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  George 
Redway.     mdccclxxxvii. 

(111).  Thomas  Middleton.  Plays.  Edited  by 
Havelock  Ellis.  With  an  introduction 
by  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Vizetelly  and  Co.     1887. 

(112).  The  Question,     mdccclxxxvii.     A  poem 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     167 

by  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Charles  Ottley,  London,  and  Co. 
1887. 

The  poem  has  not  been  reprinted. 

(113).  The  Jubilee,  mdccclxxxviii.  By  Al- 
gernon Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Fortnightly  Review.     I.  August,  1887. 

(114).  Gathered  Songs.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Charles  Ottley, 
Landon,  and  Co.     1887. 

(115).  Fine  Passages  in  Verse  and  Prose: 
Selected  by  Living  Men  of  Letters. 
Fortnightly  Review.  I.  August,  1887, 
n.  s.  vol.  xlii.  pp.  297-316.  II.  Septem- 
ber, 1887.     n.  s.  vol.  xlii.  pp.  430-454. 

Swinburne  contributed  two  letters  to 
this  symposium  which  are  printed  on 
pages  316  and  W. 

(116).  A  Retrospect.  (Letter  to  The  Times.) 
The  Times.     May  6,  1887.    p.  4.  col.  5. 

(117).  Unionism  and  Crime.  The  St.  James's 
Gazette.     May  6,  1887.  p.  5. 

(118).  Mazzini  and  the  Union.  (Letter  to  The 
Times).  The  Times.  May  11,  1887, 
p.  14,  col.  5. 

(119).  Note  on  Epipsychidion.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  Epipsychidion.  By 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  with  an  introduc- 
tion by  the  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke, 
M.  A.  1887.  pp.  lxi-lxvi. 

(120).  Philip    Bourke    Marston.  (Sonnet). 

The  Athenasum.     Feb.  19,  1887.  p.  257. 


168  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

(121).  May,    1885.     (Poem).     The    Athenaeum. 
Dec.  17,  1887.  p.  825. 
1888. 

(122).  Unpublished  Verses.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.     1866. 

There    are    two    printings    of    these 
verses.     The  date  1866  is,  of  course,  not 
the  date  of  publication. 
1889. 

(123).  Poems  and  Ballads.  Third  Series.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Chatto  and  Windus.     1889. 

(124).  A  Study  of  Ben  Jonson.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1889. 

(125).  The  Bride's  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Printed 
Privately.     1889. 

(126).  The  Ballad  of  Dead  Men's  Bay.  By  Al- 
gernon Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Printed  Privately.     1889. 

(127).  The  Brothers.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Printed  Pri- 
vately.    1889. 

(128).  Philip  Massinger.  The  Fortnightly  Re- 
view, n.s.  vol.  xlvi.  pp.  1-23.  July, 
1889. 

(129).  Victor  Hugo  and  Mr.  Swinburne.  The 
Pall  Mall  Gazette.  Sept.  24,  1889. 
p.  4. 

Contains  a  letter  from  Swinburne  to 
the  Rev.  H.  R.  Haweis. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     169 

(130).  The  Ballad  of  Truthful  Charles.     The  St. 
James's    Gazette,     vol.    xix.    No.    2844. 
July  18,  1889.     p.  7. 
1890. 

(131).  A  Sequence  of  Sonnets  on  the  Death  of 
Robert  Browning.  By  A.  C.  Swin- 
burne. London:  Printed  for  Private 
Circulation,     mdcccxc. 

(132).  C.  A.  (sic)  Swinburne.  Siena.  Tradu- 
zione  di  Salomone  Menasci.  Firenzo 
Tipografia  Co-operativa.     1890. 

1891. 

(133).  Gabriel  Mourey.  Poemes  et  Ballades  de 
A.  C.  Swinburne.  Notes  sur  Swinburne 
par  Guy  de  Maupassant.  Paris:  Nou- 
velle  Librairie  Parisienne.  Albert 
Savine.     1891. 

(134).  New  Year's  Eve,  1899.  (Sonnet.)  The 
Athenaeum.    Aug.  15,  1891.    p.  224. 

(135).  Social  Verse.     The  Forum,  vol.  xii.  pp. 
169-185.      October,    1891.       (Reprinted 
in  The  Forum.    Vol.  xliii.  pp.  129-144. 
February,  1910.) 
1892. 

(136).  The  Sisters.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Chatto 
and  Windus.     1892. 

(137).  Richard  Brome.  The  Fortnightly  Re- 
view. April,  1892,  n.s.  vol.  li.  pp. 
500-507. 

(138).  The  New  Terror.     The  Fortnightly  Re- 


170  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

view.     Dec,     1892.     n.s.    vol.    lii.    pp. 
830-833. 

(139).  The  Centenary  of  Shelley.  (Sonnet.) 
The  Athenaeum.  July  30,  1892.  p. 
159. 

1893. 

(140).  The  Ballad  of  Bulgarie.  By  Al- 
gernon Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Printed       for       Private       Circulation. 

MDCCCXCIII. 

The  yoem  has  not  been  reprinted. 

(141).  Grace  Darling.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Printed  only  for 
Private  Circulation.     1893. 

(142).  The     Palace     of     Pan.     (Poem.)        The 
Nineteenth    Century.     Vol.    xxxiv.    pp. 
501-503.     October,  1893. 
1894. 

(143).  Astrophel  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Chatto  and  Windus.     1894. 

(144).  Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry.  By  Al- 
gernon Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Chatto  and  Windus.     1894. 

(145).  Felise:  A  Book  of  Lyrics.  Chosen  from 
the  Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. Portland:  T.  B.  Mosher. 
1894. 

This   volume   contains   work   hitherto 
uncollected. 

1895. 

(146).  Laus  Veneris.     Poeme  de  Swinburne  tra- 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     171 

duit  par  Francis  Viele-Griffin.     Paris: 
Edition      du      Mercure      de      France. 

MDCCCXCV. 

The  translation  is  in  French  prose. 
1896. 

(147) .  The  Tale  of  Balen.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Chatto  and  Win- 
dus.     1896. 

(148).  One  Penny.  A  Word  for  the  Navy. 
By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don:    George     Redway.       mdcccxcvi. 

(149).  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century:  Contributions  towards  a  Lit- 
erary History  of  the  Period.  Edited 
by  W.  Robertson  Nicoll,  M.A.,  LL.D., 
and  Thomas  J.  Wise.  London:  Hod- 
der  and  Stoughton.  1896.  Vol.  ii.  pp. 
291-374.  A  Contribution  to  the  Bibli- 
ography of  the  Writings  of  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne. 

Reprints  various  fragments  otherwise 
practically  inaccessible. 

(150).  Letter  to  Mr.  C.  K.  Shorter.  The 
Sketch.     Apr.  1,  1896. 

(151).  The  Golden  Age.  The  Daily  Chronicle. 
March  81,  1896,  p.  3. 

(152).  "The  Well  at  the  World's  End."  The 
Nineteenth  Century.  November,  1896. 
Vol.  xl,  pp.  759-760. 

1897. 
(153).  For    Greece    and    Crete.     (Poem.)     The 


172  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Nineteenth  Century.    Vol.  xli.  pp.  337- 

338.     March,  1897. 
(154).  John     Day.     The     Nineteenth     Century. 

October,  1897.     Vol.  xlii.  pp.  549-559. 
1899. 
(155).  Rosamond,  Queen  of  the  Lombards.     A 

Tragedy.     London:    Chatto   and   Win- 

dus.     1899. 
(156).  After     the     Verdict,     September,     1899. 

(Sonnet).     The     Nineteenth     Century. 

Vol.  xlvi.  p.  521.     October,  1899. 
1901. 
(157).  A  Year's  Letters.     By  Algernon  Charles 

Swinburne.     Portland:    T.   B.   Mosher. 

1901. 
(158).  1901.     (Sonnet.)      The  Saturday  Review. 

Jan.  5,  1901.     Vol.  xci.  p.  1. 

1902. 

(159).  Charles     Dickens.         Quarterly    Review. 

July,  1902.     Vol.  cxcvi.  pp.  20-39. 
Reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 
1904. 
(160).  A    Channel   Passage   and    Other   Poems. 

By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.     Sec- 
ond edition.     London:  Chatto  and  Win- 

dus.     1904. 
(161).  Poems.     By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

London:  Chatto  and  Windus.     Six  vol- 
umes.    1904. 

1905. 
(162).  Love's    Cross-Currents.     A    Year's    Let- 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne    173 

ters.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 
London:  Chatto  and  Windus.  1905. 
(163).  Czar!  Louis  XVI!  Adsit  Omen!  (Son- 
net). Pall  Mall  Gazette.  (Reprinted 
in  The  Living  Age,  Feb.  11,  1905.  Vol. 
ccxliv.  p.  380.) 

1906. 

(164).  Tragedies.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Chatto  and  Windus. 
Five  volumes.     1906. 

1907. 

(165).  Memorial  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Karl 
Blind.  The  Fortnightly  Review,  n.  s. 
vol.    lxxxii.    pp.    353-356.     September, 

1907. 

1908. 

(166).  The  Age  of  Shakespeare.     By  Algernon 

Charles     Swinburne.     London:     Chatto 

and  Windus.     1908. 
(167).  The    Duke    of     Gandia.     By    Algernon 

Charles    Swinburne.     London:    Chatto 

and  Windus.     1908. 

1909. 

(168).  Three  Plays  of  Shakespeare.  By  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.  New  York 
and  London:  Harper  and  Bros.     1909. 

(169).  Shakespeare.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne.   London:  Henry  Frowde.    1909. 

(170).  The  Marriage  of  Mona  Lisa.  By  Alger- 
non Charles  Swinburne.     London:  Pri- 


174  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

vately    Printed    for    Thomas    J.    Wise. 
1909. 

Seven  copies  printed. 

(171).  The  Portrait.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Privately  Printed 
for  Thomas  J.  Wise.     1909. 

(172).  The  Chronicle  of  Fredegond.  By  Al- 
gernon Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Privately  Printed  for  Thomas  J.  Wise. 
1909. 

(173).  Margaret.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Privately  Printed  for 
Thomas  J.  Wise.     1909. 

(174).  Lord  Scales.     By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne.    London:  Privately  Printed  for 
Thomas  J.  Wise.     1909. 
Twenty  copies  printed. 

(175).  Lord  Soules.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. With  a  Preface  by  Theo- 
dore Watts-Dunton.  London:  Pri- 
vately Printed  for  Thomas  J.  Wise. 
1909. 

Seven  copies  printed. 

(176).  Border  Ballads.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Privately  Printed 
for  Thomas  J.  Wise.     1909. 

(177).  To  W.  T.  W.  D.  (Written  upon  the 
Fly-leaf  of  a  copy  of  "Sympathy  and 
Other  Poems,"  by  S.  J.  Pratt:  8vo. 
1807.)  London:  Privately  Printed  for 
Thomas  J.  Wise.  1909. 
Twenty  copies  printed. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne    175 

1909 

(178).  In  the  Twilight.  Poem  by  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Only  ten  copies  printed.     Written  in 
1867. 

(179) .  Burd  Margaret.  A  Ballad  by  a  Borderer. 
By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Privately  Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise. 
1909. 

Twenty  copies  printed. 

(180).  The  Portrait.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  With  an  Introduction  by 
Theodore  Watts-Dunton.  London :  Pri- 
vately Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Twenty  copies  printed  of  this  prose 
romance. 

(181).  The  Chronicle  of  Queen  Fredegond.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  London: 
Privately  Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise. 
1909. 

Twenty  copies  printed  of  this  prose 
romance. 

(182).  Border  Ballads.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Privately  Printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Includes  Three  Ballads:  "Earl  Rob- 
ert," "Duriesdyke"  and  "Westland 
Well."     Twenty  copies  printed. 

(183).  Letters  to  T.  J.  Wise.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Privately 
printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 


176  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Twenty  copies  printed.  Includes  an 
Unpublished  Song  From  a  Cancelled 
Passage  in  "  Chastelard." 

(184).  Ode  to  Mazzini.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Privately  printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Twenty  copies  printed.  Probably 
written  in  1857. 

(185).  M.  Prudhomme  at  the  International  Ex- 
hibition. By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. With  a  Preface  by  Edmund 
Gosse.  London:  Privately  printed  for 
T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Twenty  copies  of  this  prose  essay 
printed.     Written  in  1862. 

(186).  Of  Liberty  and  Loyalty.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  With  a  Preface  by 
Edmund  Gosse.  London:  Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Twenty  copies  of  this  prose  essay 
printed.     Written  in  1866. 

(187).  The  Saviour  of  Society.  Two  Sonnets  and 
a  Controversy.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  With  a  Preface  by 
Edmund  Gosse.  London:  Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 

Twenty  Copies  Printed.  The  Son- 
nets are  reprinted  from  the  Examiner 
of  May  17,  1873,  and  several  letters  are 
also  reprinted  from  the  Examiner  and 
Spectator.  The  sonnets  and  letters  are 
all  listed  above,  9.v. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     177 

(188).  The  Worm  of  Spindlestonheugh.     A  Bal- 
lad    by     a     Borderer.     By     Algernon 
Charles    Swinburne.     With    a    Preface 
by  Edmund  Gosse.     London:  Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1909. 
Twenty  Copies  Printed. 
(189) .  Letters  on  the  Works  of  George  Chapman. 
By      Algernon      Charles      Swinburne. 
With    a    Preface    by    Edmund    Gosse. 
London:    Privately   Printed   for   T.   J. 
Wise.     1909. 
Letters  to  Richard  Heme  Shepherd. 
Twenty  copies  printed. 
(190).  From  Literary  London.      (Special  Corre- 
spondence of  the  Dial.)     By   Clement 
K.  Shorter.     The  Dial.     December  16, 
1909.     Vol.  xlvii.  pp.  504-505. 

Includes  two  hitherto  unpublished 
poems  by  Swinburne. 
1910 
(191).  The  Ballade  of  Villon  and  Fat  Madge. 
By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 
With  a  Preface  by  Edmund  Gosse. 
London:  Privately  printed  for  T.  J. 
Wise.     1910. 

Twenty  copies  printed. 
(192).  A  Criminal  Case.     A  Sketch  by  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.     London:  Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1910. 

Twenty    copies    of    this    prose    tale 
printed. 
(193).  A  Record  of  Friendship.     By  Algernon 


178  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

Charles  Swinburne.    London:    Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1910. 

Recollections  of  Rossetti.  Written  in 
1882.     Twenty  copies  printed. 

(194) .  The  Ballade  of  Truthful  Charles  and  Other 
Poems.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Privately  printed  for 
T.  J.  Wise.     1910. 

Ten  poems,  nine  of  rvkich  appeared 
previously  in  periodicals,  and  are  listed 
above.     Twenty  copies  printed. 

(195).  Letters  on  William  Morris,  Omar  Khay- 
yam, and  Other  Subjects  of  Interest. 
By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Lon- 
don: Privately  Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise. 
1910. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  nine  letters 
printed. 

(196).  Letters  Chiefly  Concerning  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 
With  a  Preface  by  John  II.  Ingram. 
London:  Privately  Printed  for  T.  J. 
Wise.     1910. 

Twenty  copies  printed  of  these  eleven 
letters  to  John  H.  Ingram. 

(197).  Letters  on  the  Elizabethan  Dramatists. 
By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  With 
a  Preface  and  Notes  by  Edmund  Gosse. 
London:  Privately  Printed  for  T.  J. 
Wise.     1910. 

Twenty  copies  printed  of  these  ten  let- 
ters to  A.  H.  Bullen. 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     179 

(198).  Letters  to  Thomas  Purnell  and  Other 
Correspondents.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Privately  Printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1910. 

Twenty  copies  printed  of  these  ten  let- 
ters addressed  to  Thomas  Purnell,  A.  H. 
Bullen,  and  Philip  Bourke  Marston. 

(199).  Letters  to  A.  H.  Bullen.  By  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  London:  Privately 
Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.     1910. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  sixteen  letters 
printed. 

(200).  Letters  to  John  Churton  Collins.  By 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  With  a 
Preface  by  Edmund  Gosse.  London: 
Privately  Printed  for  T.  J.  Wise.  1910. 
Twenty  copies  of  these  twelve  letters 
printed. 

(201).  Letters  to  Edmund  Gosse.  Series  I. 
1867-1875.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. With  a  Preface  by  Edmund 
Gosse.  London:  Privately  printed  for 
T.  J.  Wise.     1910. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  ten  letters 
printed. 

(202).  The  Earlier  Plays  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  The  North  American  Re- 
view. May,  1910.  Vol.  cxci.  pp.  612- 
625. 

1911 

(203).  Letters  to  Edmund  Gosse.  Series  II. 
1876-1877.     By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 


180  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure 

burne.     London:        Privately    Printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1911. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  seventeen  let- 
ters printed. 
(204).  Letters   to   Edmund    Gosse.     Series    III. 
1878-1880.  By     Algernon     Charles 

Swinburne.     London:  Privately  Printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1911. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  twelve  letters 
printed. 
(205).  Letters  to  Edmund  Gosse.  Series  IV. 
1881-1885.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  London:  Privately  Printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1911. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  eighteen  letters 
printed. 
(206).  Letters  to  Edmund  Gosse.  Series  V. 
1886-1907.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. London:  Privately  Printed 
for  T.  J.  Wise.     1911. 

Twenty  copies  of  these  nineteen  letters 
printed.  For  a  description  of  this  and 
the  other  pamphlets  printed  by  Tho7nas 
J.  Wise,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Clement 
K.  Shorter's  article  in  the  Dial  listed 
above,  and  especially  to  Mr.  George  H. 
Sargent's  check-list  published  in  the 
Boston  Evening  Transcript,  March, 
1913. 

1913. 
(207).  Vera:  A  Play  in  MS. 
(208) .  Border  Ballads  by  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 


Works  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     181 

burne.  Edited  by  T.  J.  Wise.  Boston: 
Bibliophile  Society.  1913. 
(209).  A  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure:  Essays  and 
Studies  by  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne. With  a  Bibliography  by  Ed- 
ward J.  O'Brien.  Boston:  Richard  G. 
Badger.    1913. 


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